pR  Si  5-5- 

I ^ I 


. 


THE 


CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 

* 

ftl) xtt  Cectum 

ON 

WORK,  TRAFFIC,  AND  WAR. 

BY 

JOHN  RUSKIN,  M.  A.  rC 


‘ And  indeed  it  should  have  been  of  gold,  had  not  Jupiter  been  so  poor.’ 

Aristophanes  (Plutus). 


“BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

SUU* 


NEW  YORK: 

JOHN  WILEY  & SON,  535  BROADWAY. 
1866. 


ft 


V 


The  New  York  Printing  Company, 

8i,  83,  and  85  Centre  St., 

NEW  YORK. 


PREFACE. 


Twenty  years  ago,  there  was  no  lovelier  piece  of  lowland 
scenery  in  South  England,  nor  any  more  pathetic  in  the 
world,  by  its  expression  of  sweet  human  character  and  life, 
than  that  immediately  bordering  on  the  sources  of  the 
Wandle,  and  including  the  lower  moors  of  Addington,  and 
the  villages  of  Beddington  and  Carshalton,  with  all  their 
pools  and  streams.  No  clearer  or  diviner  waters  ever  sang* 
with  constant  lips  of  the  hand  which  ‘giveth  rain  from 
heaven ; ’ no  pastures  ever  lightened  in  spring  time  with 
more  passionate  blossoming ; no  sweeter  homes  ever  hal- 
lowed the  heart  of  the  passer-by  with  their  pride  of  peaceful 
gladness — fain-hidden — yet  full-confessed.  The  place  re- 
mains, or,  until  a few  months  ago,  remained,  nearly 
■unchanged  in  its  larger  features  ; but,  with  deliberate  mind 
I say,  that  I have  never  seen  anything  so  ghastly  in  its 
inner  tragic  meaning, — not  in  Pisan  Maremma, — not  by 
Campagna  tomb, — not  by  the  sand-isles  of  the  Torcellan 
shore, — as  the  slow  stealing  of  aspects  of  reckless,  indolent, 
animal  neglect,  over  the  delicate  sweetness  of  that  English 


IV 


PREFACE. 


scene  : nor  is  any  blasphemy  or  impiety — any  frantic  saying 
or  godless  thought- — more  appalling  to  me,  using  the  best 
power  of  judgment  I have  to  discern  its  sense  and  scope, 
than  the  insolent  defilings  of  those  springs  by  the  human 
herds  that  drink  of  them.  Just  where  the  welling  of  stain- 
less water,  trembling  and  pure,  like  a body  of  light,  enters 
the  pool  of  Carshalton,  cutting  itself  a radiant  channel  down 
to  the  gravel,  through  warp  of  feathery  weeds,  all  waving, 
which  it  traverses  with  its  deep  threads  of  clearness,  like 
the  chalcedony  in  moss-agate,  starred  here  and  there  with 
white  grenouillette ; just  in  the  very  rush  and  murmur  of 
the  first  spreading  currents,  the  human  wretches  of  the 
place  cast  their  street  and  house  foulness;  heaps  of  dust  and 
slime,  and  broken  shreds  of  old  metal,  and  rags  of  putrid 
clothes ; they  having  neither  energy  to  cart  it  away,  nor 
decency  enough  to  dig  it  into  the  ground,  thus  shed  into 
the  stream,  to  diffuse  what  venom  of  it  will  float  and  melt, 
far  away,  in  all  places  where  God  meant  those  waters  to 
bring  joy  and  health.  And,  in  a little  pool,  behind  some 
houses  farther  in  the  village,  where  another  spring  rises,  the 
shattered  stones  of  the  well,  and  of  the  little  fretted  channel 
which  was  long  ago  built  and  traced  for  it  by  gentler 
hands,  lie  scattered,  each  from  each,  under  a ragged  bank 
of  mortar,  and  scoria ; and  bricklayers’  refuse,  on  one  side, 
which  the  clean  water  nevertheless  chastises  to  purity ; but 


PREFACE. 


V 


it  cannot  conquer  the  dead  earth  beyond  ; and  there,  circled 
and  coiled  under  festering  scum,  the  stagnant  edge  of  the 
pool  effaces  itself  into  a slope  of  black  slime,  the  accumula- 
tion of  indolent  years.  Half-a-dozen  men,  with  one  day’s 
work,  could  cleanse  those  pools,  and  trim  the  flowers  about 
their  banks,  and  make  every  breath  of  summer  air  above 
them  rich  with  cool  balm  ; and  every  glittering  wave  medi- 
cinal, as  if  it  ran,  troubled  of  angels,  from  the  porch  of 
Bethesda.  But  that  day’s  work  is  never  given,  nor  will 
be ; nor  will  any  joy  be  possible  to  heart  of  man,  for 
evermore,  about  those  wells  of  English  waters. 

When  I last  left  them,  I walked  up  slowly  through  the 
back  streets  of  Croydon,  from  the  old  church  to  the  hos- 
pital ; and,  just  on  the  left,  before  coming  up  to  the  cross- 
ing of  the  High  Street,  there  was  a new  public-house  built. 
And  the  front  of  it  was  built  in  so  wise  manner,  that  a 
recess  of  two  feet  was  left  below  its  front  windows,  between 
them  and  the  street-pavement — a recess  too  narrow  for  any 
possible  use  (for  even  if  it  had  been  occupied  by  a seat,  as 
in  old  time  it  might  have  been,  everybody  walking  along 
the  street  would  have  fallen  over  the  legs  of  the  reposing 
wayfarers).  But,  by  way  of  making  this  two  feet  depth  of 
freehold  land  more  expressive  of  the  dignity  of  an  esta- 
blishment for  the  sale  of  spirituous  liquors^  it  was  fenced 
from  the  pavement  by  an  imposing  iron  railing,  having  four 


VI 


PREFACE. 


or  five  spearheads  to  the  yard  of  it,  and  six  feet  high ; con- 
taining as  much  iron  and  iron-work,  indeed,  as  could  well 
be  put  into  the  space  ; and  by  this  stately  arrangement,  the 
little  piece  of  dead  ground  within,  between  wall  and  street, 
became  a protective  receptacle  of  refuse ; cigar  ends,  and 
oyster  shells,  and  the  like,  such  as  an  open-handed  English 
street-populace  habitually  scatters  from  its  presence,  and 
was  thus  left,  unsweepable  by  any  ordinary  methods.  Now 
the  iron  bars  which,  uselessly  (or  in  great  degree  worse 
than  uselessly),  enclosed  this  bit  of  ground,  and  made  it 
pestilent,  represented  a quantity  of  work  which  would  have 
cleansed  the  Carshalton  pools  three  times  over; — of  work, 
partly  cramped  and  deadly,  in  the  mine ; partly  fierce*  and 

* 1 A fearful  occurrence  took  place  a few  days  since,  near  Wolverhamp- 
ton. Thomas  Snape,  aged  nineteen,  was  on  duty  as  the  “ keeper  ” of  a 
blast  furnace  at  Deepfield,  assisted  by  John  Gardner,  aged  eighteen,  and 
Joseph  Swift,  aged  thirty-seven.  The  furnace  contained  four  tons  of  molten 
iron,  and  an  equal  amount  of  cinders,  and  ought  to  have  been  run  out  at  7-30 
p.m.  But  Snape  and  his  mates,  engaged  in  talking  and  drinking,  neglected 
their  duty,  and,  in  the  meantime,  the  iron  rose  in  the  furnace  until  it  reached 
a pipe  wherein  water  was  contained.  Just  as  the  men  had  stripped,  and 
were  proceeding  to  tap  the  furnace,  the  water  in  the  pipe,  converted  into 
steam,  burst  down  its  front  and  let  loose  on  them  the  molten  metal,  which 
instantaneously  consumed  Gardner ; Snape,  terribly  burnt,  and  mad  with 
pain,  leaped  into  the  canal  and  then  ran  home  -and  fell  dead  on  the  thresh- 
old ; Swift  survived  to  reach  the  hospital,  where  he  died  too.’ 


PREFACE. 


vii 

exhaustive,  at  the  furnace  ; partly  foolish  and  sedentary, 
of  ill-taught  students  making  bad  designs : work  from  the 
beginning  to  the  last  fruits  of  it,  and  in  all  the  branches  of 
it,  venomous,  deatbful,  and  miserable.  Now,  how  did  it 
come  to  pass  that  this  work  was  done  instead  of  the  other ; 
that  the  strength  and  life  of  the  English  operative  were 
spent  in  defiling  ground,  instead  of  redeeming  it ; and  in 
producing  an  entirely  (in  that  place)  valueless  piece  of 
metal,  which  can  neither  be  eaten  nor  breathed,  instead  of 
medicinal  fresh  air,  and  pure  water  ? 

There  is  but  one  reason  for  it,  and  at  present  a conclusive 
one, — that  the  capitalist  can  charge  per-centage  on  the  work 
in  the  one  case,  and  cannot  in  the  other.  If,  having  certain 
funds  for  supporting  labour  at  my  disposal,  I pay  men 
merely  to  keep  my  ground  in  order,  my  money  is,  in  that 
function,  spent  once  for  all ; but  if  I pay  them  to  dig  iron 
out  of  my  ground,  and  work  it,  and  sell  it,  I can  charge 
rent  for  the  ground,  and  per-centage  both  on  the  manufac- 
ture and  the  sale,  and  make  my  capital  profitable  in  these 
three  bye-ways.  The  greater  part  of  the  profitable  invest- 
ment of  capital,  in  the  present  day,  is  in  operations  of  this 

In  further  illustration  of  this  matter,  I beg  the  reader  to  look  at  the 
article  on  the  ‘ Decay  of  the  English  Race,’  in  the  ‘ Pall-Mall  Gazette' of 
April  It,  of  this  year;  and  at  the  articles  on  the  ‘Report  of  the  Thames 
Commission,’  in  any  journals  of  the  same  date. 


VI 11 


PREFACE. 


kind,  in  which  the  public  is  persuaded  to  buy  something 
of  no  use  to  it,  on  production,  or  sale,  of  which,  the  capital- 
ist may  charge  per-centage ; the  said  public  remaining  all 
the  while  under  the  persuasion  that  the  per  centages  thus 
obtained  are  real  national  gains,  whereas,  they  are  merely 
filchings  out  of  partially  light  pockets,  to  swell  heavy 
ones. 

Thus,  the  Croydon  publican  buys  the  iron  railing,  to 
make  himself  more  conspicuous  to  drunkards.  The  public- 
house-keeper  on  the  other  side  of  the  way  presently  buys 
another  railing,  to  out-rail  him  with.  Both  are,  as  to  their 
relative  attractiveness  to  customers  of  taste,  just  where  they 
were  before ; but  they  have  lost  the  price  of  the  railings ; 
which  they  must  either  themselves  finally  lose,  or  make 
their  aforesaid  customers  of  taste  pay,  by  raising  the  price 
of  their  beer,  or  adulterating  it.  Either  the  publicans,  or 
their  customers,  are  thus  poorer  by  precisely  what  the 
capitalist  has  gained;  and  the  value  of  the  work  itself, 
meantime,  has  been  lost  to  the  nation;  the  iron  bars  in 
that  form  and  place  being  wholly  useless.  It  is  this  mode 
of  taxation  of  the  poor  by  the  rich  which  is  referred  to  in 
the  text  (page  31),  in  comparing  the  modern  acquisitive 
power  of  capital  with  that  of  the  lance  and  sword ; the 
only  difference  being  that  the  levy  of  black  mail  in  old 
times  was  by  force,  and  is  now  by  cozening.  The  old 


PREFACE. 


IX 


rider  and  reiver  frankly  quartered  himself  on  the  publican 
for  the  night ; the  modern  one  merely  makes  his  lance  into 
an  iron  spike,  and  persuades  his  host  to  buy  it.  One 
comes  as  an  open  robber,  the  other  as  a cheating  pedlar ; 
but  the  result,  to  the  injured  person’s  pocket,  is  absolutely 
the  same.  Of  course  many  useful  industries  mingle  with, 
and  disguise  the  useless  ones;  and  in  the  habits  of  energy 
aroused  by  the  struggle,  there  is  a certain  direct  good.  It 
is  far  better  to  spend  four  thousand  pounds  in  making  a 
good  gun,  and  then  to  blow  it  to  pieces,  than  to  pass  life 
in  idleness.  Only  do  not  let  it  be  called  1 political  economy.’ 
There  is  also  a confused  notion  in  the  minds  of  many  per- 
sons, that  the  gathering  of  the  property  of  the  poor  into 
the  hands  of  the  rich  does  no  ultimate  harm ; since,  in 
whosesoever  hands  it  may  be,  it  must  be  spent  at  last,  and 
thus,  they  think,  return  to  the  poor  again.  This  fallacy 
has  been  again  and  again  exposed  ; but  grant  the  plea  true, 
and  the  same  apology  may,  of  course,  be  made  for  black 
mail,  or  any  other  form  of  robbery.  It  might  be  (though 
practically  it  never  is)  as  advantageous  for  the  nation  that 
the  robber  should  have  the  spending  of  the  money  he  ex- 
torts, as  that  the  person  robbed  should  have  spent  it.  But 
this  i^no  excuse  for  the  theft.  If  I were  to  put  a turnpike 
on  the  road  where  it  passes  my  own  gate,  and  endeavour 
to  exact  a shilling  from  every  passenger,  the  public  would 


X 


PREFACE. 


soon  do  away  with  my  gate,  without  listening  to  any  plea 
on  my  part  that  1 it  was  as  advantageous  to  them,  in  the 
end,  that  I should  spend  their  shillings,  as  that  they  them- 
selves should.’  But  if,  instead  of  out-facing  them  with  a 
turnpike,  I can  only  persuade  them  to  come  in  and  buy 
stones,  or  old  iron,  or  any  other  useless  thing,  out  of  my 
ground,  I may  rob  them  to  the  same  extent,  and  be,  more- 
over, thanked  as  a public  benefactor,  and  promoter  of  com- 
mercial prosperity.  And  this  main  question  for  the  poor 
of  England — for  the  poor  of  all  countries — is  wholly 
omitted  in  every  common  treatise  on  the  subject  of  wealth. 
Even  by  the  labourers  themselves,  the  operation  of  capital 
is  regarded  only  in  its  effect  on  their  immediate  interests ; 
never  in  the  far  more  terrific  power  of  its  appointment  of 
the  kind  and  the  object  of  labour.  It  matters  little,  ulti- 
mately, how  much  a labourer  is  paid  for  making  anything ; 
but  it  matters  fearfully  what  the  thing  is,  which  he  is  com- 
pelled to  make.  If  his  labour  is  so  ordered  as  to  produce 
food,  and  fresh  air,  and  fresh  water,  no  matter  that  his 
wages  are  low ; — the  food  and  fresh  air  and  water  will  be 
at  last  there;  and  he  will  at  last  get  them.  But  if  he  is 
paid  to  destroy  food  and  fresh  air,  or  to  produce  iron  bars 
instead  of  them, — the  food  and  air  will  finally  not  be  there, 
and  he  will  not  get  them,  to  his  great  and  final  incon- 
venience. So  that,  conclusively,  in  political  as  in  house- 


PREFACE. 


XL 


hold  economy,  the  great  question  is,  not  so  much  what 
money  you  have  in  your  pocket,  as  what  you  will  buy 
with  it,  and  do  with  it. 

I have  been  long  accustomed,  as  all  men  engaged  in 
work  of  investigation  must  be,  to  hear  my  statements 
laughed  at  for  years,  before  they  are  examined  or  believed ; 
and  I am  generally  content  to  wait  the  public’s  time.  But 
it  has  not  been  without  displeased  surprise  that  I have 
found  myself  totally  unable,  as  yet,  by  any  repetition,  or 
illustration,  to  force  this  plain  thought  into  my  readers’ 
heads, — that  the  wealth  of  nations,  as  of  men,  consists  in 
substance,  not  in  ciphers ; and  that  the  real  good  of  all 
work,  and  of  all  commerce,  depends  on  the  final  worth  of 
the  thing  you  make,  or  get  by  it.  This  is  a practical 
enough  statement,  one  would  think:  but  the  English 
public  has  been  so  possessed  by  its  modern  school  of  eco- 
nomists with  the  notion  that  Business  is  always  good, 
whether  it  be  busy  in  mischief  or  in  benefit ; and  that 
buying  and  selling  are  always  salutary,  whatever  the 
intrinsic  worth  of  what  you  buy  or  sell, — that  it  seems 
impossible  to  gain  so  much  as  a patient  hearing  for  any 
inquiry  respecting  the  substantial  result  of  our  eager 
modern  labours.  I have  never  felt  more  checked  by  the 
sense  of  this  impossibility  than  in  arranging  the  heads  of 
the  following  three  lectures,  which,  though  delivered  at  con- 


xn 


PREFACE. 


siderable  intervals  of  time,  and  in  different  places,  were 
not  prepared  without  reference  to  each  other.  Their  con- 
nection would,  however,  have  been  made  far  more  distinct, 
if  I had  not  been  prevented,  by  what  I feel  to  be  another 
great  difficulty  in  addressing  English  audiences,  from  enforc- 
ing, with  any  decision,  the  common,  and  to  me  the  most  im- 
portant, part  of  their  subjects.  I chiefly  desired  (as  I have 
just  said)  to  question  my  hearers — operatives,  merchants, 
and  soldiers,  as  to  the  ultimate  meaning  of  the  business  they 
had  in  hand ; and  to  know  from  them  what  they  expected 
or  intended  their  manufacture  to  come  to,  their  selling  to 
come  to,  and  their  killing  to  come  to.  That  appeared  the 
first  point  needing  determination  before  I could  speak  to 
them  with  any  real  utility  or  effect.  1 You  craftsmen — sales- 
men— swordsmen, — do  but  tell  me  clearly  what  you  want ; 
then,  if  I can  say  anything  to  help  you,  I will ; and  if  not,  I 
will  account  to  you  as  I best  may  for  my  inability.5  But 
in  order  to  put  this  question  into  any  terms,  one  had  first 
of  all  to  face  the  difficulty  just  spoken  of — to  me  for  the 
present  insuperable, — the  difficulty  of  knowing  whether  to 
address  one’s  audience  as  believing,  or  not  believing,  in 
any  other  world  than  this.  For  if  you  address  any  average 
modern  English  company  as  believing  in  an  Eternal  life,  • 
and  endeavour  to  draw  any  conclusions,  from  this  assumed 
belief,  as  to  their  present  business,  they  will  forthwith  tell 


PKEFACE. 


Xlll 


you  that  4 what  you  say  is  very  beautiful,  but  it  is  not 
practical.’  If,  on  the  contrary,  you  frankly  address  them 
as  unbelievers  in  Eternal  life,  and  try  to  draw  any  con- 
sequences from  that  unbelief, — they  immediately  hold  you 
for  an  accursed  person,  and  shake  off  the  dust  from  their 
feet  at  you.  And  the  more  I thought  over  what  I had  got 
to  say,  the  less  I found  I could  say  it,  without  some  refer- 
ence to  this  intangible  or  intractable  part  of  the  subject. 
It  made  all  the  difference,  in  asserting  any  principle  of  war, 
whether  one  assumed  that  a discharge  of  artillery  would 
merely  knead  down  a certain  quantity  of  red  clay  into  a 
level  line,  as  in  a brick  field ; or  whether,  out  of  every 
separately  Christian-named  portion  of  the  ruinous  heap, 
there  went  out,  into  the  smoke  and  dead-fallen  air  of  battle, 
some  astonished  condition  of  soul,  unwillingly  released. 
It  made  all  the  difference,  in  speaking  of  the  possible  range 
of  commerce,  whether  one  assumed  that  all  bargains  re- 
lated only  to  visible  property — or  whether  property,  for 
the  present  invisible,  but  nevertheless  real,  was  elsewhere 
purchaseable  on  other  terms.  It  made  all  the  difference, 
in  addressing  a body  of  men  subject  to  considerable  hard- 
ship, and  having  to  find  some  way  out  of  it — whether  one 
*could  confidently  say  to  them,  4 My  friends, — you  have 
only  to  die,  and  all  will  be  right;’  or  whether  one  had  any 
secret  misgiving  that  such  advice  was  more  blessed  to  him 


XIV 


PREFACE. 


that  gave,  than  to  him  that  took  it.  And  therefore  the 
deliberate  reader  will  find,  throughout  these  lectures,  a 
hesitation  in  driving  points  home,  and  a pausing  short  of 
conclusions  which  he  will  feel  I would  fain  have  come  to ; 
hesitation  which  arises  wholly  from  this  uncertainty  of  my 
hearers’  temper.  For  I do  not  now  speak,  nor  have  I ever 
spoken,  since  the  time  of  first  forward  youth,  in  any  prose- 
lyting temper,  as  desiring  to  persuade  any  one  of  what,  in 
such  matters,  I thought  myself;  but,  whomsoever  I ven- 
ture to  address,  I take  for  the  time  his  creed  as  I find  it ; 
and  endeavour  to  push  it  into  such  vital  fruit  as  it  seems 
capable  of.  Thus,  it  is  a creed  with  a great  part  of  the 
existing  English  people,  that  they  are  in  possession  of  a 
book  which  tells  them,  straight  from  the  lips  of  God  all 
they  ought  to  do,  and  need  to  know.  I have  read  that 
book,  with  as  much  care  as  most  of  them,  for  some  forty 
years ; and  am  thankful  that,  on  those  who  trust  it,  I can 
press  its  pleadings.  My  endeavour  has  been  uniformly  to 
make  them  trust  it  more  deeply  than  they  do ; trust  it, 
not  in  their  own  favourite  verses  only,  but  in  the  sum  of 
all ; trust  it  not  as  a fetish  or  talisman,  which  they  are  to 
be  saved  by  daily  repetitions  of ; but  as  a Captain’s  order, 
to  be  heard  and  obeyed  at  their  peril.  I was  always  erf- 
couraged  by  supposing  my  hearers  to  hold  such  belief.  To 
these,  if  to  any,  I once  had  hope  of  addressing,  with  ac- 


PREFACE. 


XV 


ceptanee,  words  which  insisted  on  the  guilt  of  pride,  and 
the  futility  of  avarice;  from  these,  if  from  any,  I once  ex- 
pected ratification  of  a political  economy,  which  asserted 
that  the  life  was  more  than  the  meat,  and  the  body  than 
raiment;  and  these,  it  once  seemed  to  me,  I might  ask, 
without  accusation  of  fanaticism,  not  merely  in  doctrine  of 
the  lips,  but  in  the  bestowal  of  their  heart’s  treasure,  to 
separate  themselves  from  the  crowd  of  whom  it  is  written, 
1 After  all  these  things  do  the  Gentiles  seek.’ 

It  cannot,  however,  be  assumed,  with  any  semblance  of 
reason,  that  a general  audience  is  now  wholly,  or  even  in 
majority,  composed  of  these  religious  persons.  A large 
portion  must  always  consist  of  men  who  admit  no  such 
creed ; or  who,  at  least,  are  inaccessible  to  appeals  founded 
on  it.  And  as,  with  the  so-called  Christian,  I desired  to 
plead  for  honest  declaration  and  fulfilment  of  his  belief  in 
life, — with  the  so-called  Infidel,  I desired  to  plead  for  an 
honest  declaration  and  fulfilment  of  his  belief  in  death. 
The  dilemma  is  inevitable.  Men  must  either  hereafter 
live,  or  hereafter  die ; fate  may  be  bravely  met,  and  con- 
duct wisely  ordered,  on  either  expectation;  but  never  in 
hesitation  between  ungrasped  hope,  anck unconfronted  fear. 
We  usually  believe  in  immortality,  so  far  as  to  avoid  pre- 
paration for  death ; and  in  mortality,  so  far  as  to  avoid  pre- 
paration for  anything  after  death.  Whereas,  a wise  man  will 


XVI 


PREFACE. 


at  least  hold  himself  prepared  for  one  or  other  of  two  events, 
of  which  one  or  other  is  inevitable ; and  will  have  all  things 
in  order,  for  his  sleep,  or  in  readiness,  for  his  awakening. 

Nor  have  we  any  right  to  call  it  an  ignoble  judgment, 
if  he  determine  to  put  them  in  order,  as  for  sleep.  A brave 
belief  in  life  is  indeed  an  enviable  state  of  mind,  but,  as 
far  as  I can  discern,  an  unusual  one.  I know  few  Chris- 
tians so  convinced  of  the  splendour  of  the  rooms  in  their 
Father’s  house,  as  to  be  happier  when  their  friends  are 
called  to  those  mansions,  than  they  would  have  been  if 
the  Queen  had  sent  for  them  to  live  at  court:  nor  has 
the  Church’s  most  ardent  1 desire  to  depart,  and  be  with 
Christ,’  ever  cured  it  of  the  singular  habit  of  putting  on 
mourning  for  every  person  summoned  to  such  departure. 
On  the  contrary,  a brave  belief  in  death  has  been  assu- 
redly held  by  many  not  ignoble  persons,  and  it  is  a sign 
of  the  last  depravity  in  the  Church  itself,  when  it  assumes 
that  such  a belief  is  inconsistent  with  either  purity  of 
character,  or  energy  of  hand.  The  shortness  of  life  is 
not,  to  any  rational  person,  a conclusive  reason  for  wasting 
the  space  of  it  which  may  be  granted  him ; nor  does  the 
anticipation  of  death  to-morrow  suggest,  to  any  one  but  a 
drunkard,  the  expediency  of  drunkenness  to-day.  To 
teach  that  there  is  no  device  in . the  grave,  may  indeed 
make  the  deviceless  person  more  contented  in  his  dullness ; 


PREFACE. 


XV 11 


but  it  will  make  the  deviser  only  more  earnest  in  devising : 
nor  is  human  conduct  likely,  in  every  case,  to  be  purer, 
under  the  conviction  that  all  its  evil  may  in  a moment  be 
pardoned,  and  all  its  wrong-doing  in  a moment  redeemed ; 
and  that  the  sigh  of  repentance,  which  purges  the  guilt 
of  the  past,  will  waft  the  soul  into  a felicity  which  forgets 
its  pain, — than  it  may  be  under  the  sterner,  and  to  many 
not  unwise  minds,  more  probable,  apprehension,  that 
1 what  a man  soweth  that  shall  he  also  reap5 — or  others 
reap, — when  he,  the  living  seed  of  pestilence,  walketh  no 
more  in  darkness,  but  lies  down  therein. 

But  to  men  whose  feebleness  of  sight,  or  bitterness  of 
soul,  or  the  offence  given  by  the  conduct  of  those  who 
claim  higher  hope,  may  have  rendered  this  painful  creed 
the  only  possible  one,  there  is  an  appeal  to  be  made,  more 
secure  in  its  ground  than  any  which  can  be  addressed  to 
happier  persons.  I would  fain,  if  I might  offencelessly, 
have  spoken  to  them  as  if  none  others  heard ; and  have 
said  thus : Hear  me,  you  dying  men,  who  will  soon  be 
deaf  for  ever.  For  these  others,  at  your  right  hand  and 
your  left,  who  look  forward  to  a state  of  infinite  existence, 
in  which  all  their  errors  will  be  overruled,  and  all  their 
faults  forgiven ; for  these,  who,  stained  and  blackened  in 
the  battle  smoke  of  mortality,  have  but  to  dip  themselves 
for  an  instant  in  the  font  of  death,  and  to  rise  renewed  of 


xvm 


PREFACE. 


plumage,  as  a dove  that  is  covered  with  silver,  and  her 
feathers  like  gold ; for  these,  indeed,  it  may  be  permissible 
to  waste  their  numbered  moments,  through  faith  in  a 
future  of  innumerable  hours ; to  these,  in  their  weakness, 
it  may  be  conceded  that  they  should  tamper  with  sin 
which  can  only  bring  forth  fruit  of  righteousness,  and 
profit  by  the  iniquity  which,  one  day,  will  be  remembered 
no  more.  In  them,  it  may  be  no  sign  of  hardness  of 
heart  to  neglect  the  poor,  over  whom  they  know  their 
Master  is  watching;  and  to  leave  those  to  perish  tem- 
porarily, who  cannot  perish  eternally.  But,  for  you, 
there  is  no  such  hope,  and  therefore  no  such  excuse.  This 
fate,  which  you  ordain  for  the  wretched,  you  believe  to  be 
all  their  inheritance ; you  may  crush  them,  before  the 
moth,  and  they  will  never  rise  to  rebuke  you ; — their 
breath,  which  fails  for  lack  of  food,  once  expiring,  will 
never  be  recalled  to  whisper  against  you  a word  of  accus- 
ing ; — they  and  you,  as  you  think,  shall  lie  down  together 
in  the  dust,  and  the  worms  cover  you; — and  for  them 
there  shall  be  no  consolation,  and  on  you  no  vengeance, — 
only  the  question  murmured  above  your  grave:  4 Who 
shall  repay  him  what  he  hath  done  ? ’ Is  it  therefore 
easier  for  you  in  your  heart  to  inflict  the  sorrow  for  which 
there  is  no  remedy  ? Will  you  take,  wantonly,  this  little 
all  of  his  life  from  your  poor  brother,  and  make  his  brief 


PREFACE. 


XIX 


hours  long  to  him  with  pain?  Will  you  be  readier  to 
the  injustice  which  can  never  be  redressed ; and  niggardly  of 
mercy  which  you  can  bestow  but  once,  and  which,  refusing, 
you  refuse  for  ever  ? I think  better  of  you,  even  of  the 
most  selfish,  than  that  you  would  do  this,  well  understood. 
And  for  yourselves,  dt  seems  to  me,  the  question  becomes 
not  less  grave,  in  these  curt  limits.  If  your  life  were  but  a 
fever  fit, — the  madness  of  a night,  whose  follies  were  all  to 
be  forgotten  in  the  dawn,  it  might  matter  little  how  you 
fretted  away  the  sickly  hours, — what  toys  you  snatched  at, 
or  let  fall, — what  visions  you  followed  wistfully  with  the 
deceived  eyes  of  sleepless  phrenzy.  Is  the  earth  only  an 
hospital  ? Play,  if  you  care  to  play,  on  the  floor  of  the 
hospital  dens.  Knit  its  straw  into  what  crowns  please  you  ; 
gather  the  dust  of  it  for  treasure,  and  die  rich  in  that, 
clutching  at  the  black  motes  in  the  air  with  your  dying 
hands ; — and  yet,  it  may  be  well  with  you.  But  if  this  life 
be  no  dream,  and  the  world  no  hospital ; if  all  the  peace  and 
power  and  joy  you  can  ever  win,  must  be  won  now ; and 
all  fruit  of  victory  gathered  here,  or  never  ; — will  you  still, 
throughout  the  puny  totality  of  your  life,  weary  yourselves 
in  the  fire  for  vanity  ? If  there  is  no  rest  which  remain- 
eth  for  you,  is  there  none  you  might  presently  take  ? was 
this  grass  of  the  earth  made  green  for  your  shroud  only, 
not  for  your  bed?  and  can  you  never  lie  down  upon  it,  but 


XX 


PREFACE. 


only  under  it?  The  heathen,  to  whose  creed  you  have 
returned,  thought  not  so.  They  knew  that  life  brought  its 
contest,  but  they  expected  from  it  also  the  crown  of  all 
contest:  No  proud  one!  no  jewelled  circlet  flaming 

through  Heaven  above  the  height  of  the  unmerited  throne  ; 
only  some  few  leaves  of  wild  olive,  cool  to  the  tired  brow, 
through  a few  years  of  peace.  It  should  have  been  of 
gold,  they  thought;  but  Jupiter  was  poor;  this  was  the 
best  the  god  could  give  them.  Seeking  a greater  than 
this,  they  had  known  it  a mockery.  Not  in  war,  not  in 
wealth,  not  in  tyranny,  was  there  any  happiness  to  be 
found  for  them — only  in  kindly  peace,  fruitful  and  free. 
The  wreath  was  to  be  of  'wild  olive,  mark  you  : — the  tree 
that  grows  carelessly,  tufting  the  rocks  with  no  vivid  bloom, 
no  verdure  of  branch ; only  with  soft  snow  of  blossom, 
and  scarcely  fulfilled  fruit,  mixed  with  grey  leaf  and  thorn- 
set  stem;  no  fastening  of  diadem  for  you  but  with  such 
sharp  embroidery  ! But  this,  such  as  it  is,  you  may  win 
while  yet  you  live ; type  of  grey  honour  and  sweet  rest.* 
Free-heartedness,  and  graciousness,  and  undisturbed  trust, 
and  requited  love,  and  the  sight  of  the  peace  of  others,  and 
the  ministry  to  their  pain  ; — these,  and  the  blue  sky  above 
you,  and  the  sweet  waters  and  flowers  of  the  earth  beneath  ; 


* [ ie\iT0€a<raf  azQ\o)v  y 1 eveKSv. 


PREFACE. 


XXI 


and  mysteries  and  presences,  innumerable,  of  living  things, 
— these  may  yet  be  here  your  riches ; untormenting  and 
divine : serviceable  for  the  life  that  now  is ; nor,  it  may 
be,  without  promise  of  that  which  is  to  come. 


CONTENTS 


Work 

° ♦ 

^ * 

LECTURE  I. 

PAGE 

3 

Traffic 

LECTURE  II. 

47 

LECTURE  III. 

War 


83 


I 

\ 


WORK 


LECTURE  I. 


work ; 

( Delivered  before  the  Working  Men’s  Institute , Camberwell) 

My  Friends, — I have  not  come  among  you  to-night  to 
endeavour  to  give  you  an  entertaining  lecture ; but  to  tell  you 
a few  plain  facts,  and  ask  you  some  plain,  but  necessary 
questions.  I have  seen  and  known  too  much  of  the  struggle 
for  life  among  our  labouring  population,  to  feel  at  ease,  even 
under  any  circumstances,  in  inviting  them  to  dwell  on  the 
trivialities  of  my  own  studies ; but,  much  more,  as  I meet  to- 
night, for  the  first  time,  the  members  of  a working  Institute 
established  in  the  district  in  which  I have  passed  the  greater 
part  of  my  life,  I am  desirous  that  we  should  at  once  under- 
stand each  other,  on  graver  matters.  I would  fain  tell,  you, 
with  what  feelings,  and  with  what  hope,  I regard  this  Insti- 
tution, as  one  of  many  such,  now  happily  established  through- 
out England,  as  well  as  in  other  countries; — Institutions 
which  are  preparing  the  way  for  a great  change  in  all  the 
circumstances  of  industrial  life;  but  of  which  the  success 
must  wholly  depend  upon  our  clearly  understanding  the  cir- 


4 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


cumstances  and  necessary  limits  of  this  change.  1ST o teacher 
can  truly  promote  the  cause  of  education,  until  he  knows  the 
conditions  of  the  life  for  which  that  education  is  to  prepare 
his  pupil.  And  the  fact  that  he  is  called  upon  to  address 
you,  nominally,  as  a 4 Working  Class,’  must  compel  him,  if 
he  is  in  any  wise  earnest  or  thoughtful,  to  enquire  in  the  out- 
set, on  what  you  yourselves  suppose  this  class  distinction  has 
been  founded  in  the  past,  and  must  be  founded  in  the  future. 
The  manner  of  the  amusement,  and  the  matter  of  the  teach- 
ing, which  any  of  us  can  offer  you,  must  depend  wholly  on 
our  first  understanding  from  you,  whether  you  think  the 
distinction  heretofore  drawn  between  working  men  and 
others,  is  truly  or  falsely  founded.  Do  you  accept  it  as  it 
stands  ? do  you  wish  it  to  be  modified  ? or  do  you  think  the 
object  of  education  is  to  efface  it,  and  make  us  forget  it  for 
ever? 

Let  me  make  myself  more  distinctly  understood.  We  call 
this — you  and  I — a ‘Working  Men’s’  Institute,  and  our  col- 
lege in  London,  a 4 Working  Men’s’  College.  JsTow,  how  do 
you  consider  that  these  several  institutes  differ,  or  ought  to 
differ,  from  4 idle  men’s  ’ institutes  and  4 idle  men’s 5 colleges  ? 
Or  by  what  other  word  than  4 idle  ’ shall  I distinguish  those 
whom  the  happiest  and  wisest  of  working  men  do  not  object 
to  call  the  ‘Upper  Classes?’  Are  there  really  upper 
classes, — are  there  lower?  How  much  should  they  always 


WORK. 


5 


be  elevated,  how  much  always  depressed?  And,  gentlemen 
and  ladies — I pray  those  of  you  who  are  here  to  forgive  me 
the  offence  there  may  be  in  what  I am  going  to  say.  It  is 
not  I who  wish  to  say  it.  Bitter  voices  say  it;  voices  of 
battle  and  of  famine  through  all  the  world,  which  must  be 
heard  some  day,  whoever  keeps  silence.  Neither  is  it  to  you 
specially  that  I say  it.  I am  sure  that  most  now  present 
know  their  duties  of  kindness,  and  fulfil  them,  better  perhaps 
than  I do  mine.  But  I speak  to  you  as  representing  your 
whole  class,  which  errs,  I know,  chiefly  by  thoughtlessness, 
but  not  therefore  the  less  terribly.  Wilful  error  is  limited 
by  the  will,  but  what  limit  is  there  to  that  of  which  we  are 
unconscious  ? 

Bear  with  me,  therefore,  while  I turn  to  these  workmen, 
and  ask  them,  also  as  representing  a great  multitude,  what 
they  think  the  c upper  classes  ’ are,  and  ought  to  be,  in  rela- 
tion to  them.  Answer,  you  workmen  who  are  here,  as  you 
would  among  yourselves,  frankly;  and  tell  me  how  you 
would  have  me  call  those  classes.  Am  I to  call  them — would 
you  think  me  right  in  calling  them — the  idle  classes?  I 
think  you  would  feel  somewhat  uneasy,  and  as  if  I were  not 
treating  my  subject  honestly,  or  speaking  from  my  heart,  if  I 
went  on  under  the  supposition  that  all  rich  people  were  idle. 
You  would  be  both  unjust  and  unwise  if  you  allowed  me  to 
say  that ; — not  less  unjust  than  the  rich  people  who  say  that 


0 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


all  tlie  poor  are  idle,  and  will  never  work  if  they  can  help  it, 
or  more  than  they  can  help. 

For  indeed  the  fact  is,  that  there  are  idle  poor  and  idle 
rich ; and  there  are  busy  poor  and  busy  rich.  Many  a beggar 
is  as  lazy  as  if  he  had  ten  thousand  a year ; and  many  a man 
of  large  fortune  is  busier  than  his  errand-boy,  and  never 
would  think  of  stopping  in  the  street  to  play  marbles.  So 
that,  in  a large  view,  the  distinction  between  workers  and 
idlers,  as  between  knaves  and  honest  men,  runs  through  the 
very  heart  and  innermost  economies  of  men  of  all  ranks  and 
in  all  positions.  There  is  a working  class — strong  and 
happy — among  both  rich  and  poor;  there  is  an  idle  class — 
weak,  wicked,  and  miserable — among  both  rich  and  poor. 
And  the  worst  of  the  misunderstandings  arising  between  the 
two  orders  come  of  the  unlucky  fact  that  the  wise  of  one 
class  habitually  contemplate  the  foolish  of  the  other.  If  the 
busy  rich  people  watched  and  rebuked  the  idle  rich  people, 
all  would  be  right ; and  if  the  busy  poor  people  watched  and 
rebuked  the  idle  poor  people,  all  would  be  right..  But  each 
class  has  a tendency  to  look  for  the  faults  of  the  other.  A 
hard-working  man  of  property  is  particularly  offended  by  an 
idle  beggar ; and  an  orderly,  but  poor,  workman  is  naturally 
intolerant  of  the  licentious  luxury  of  the  rich.  And  what  is 
severe  judgment  in  the  minds  of  the  just  men  of  either  class, 
becomes  fierce  enmity  in  the  unjust — but  among  the  unjust 


WORK. 


7 


only . None  but  the  dissolute  among  the  poor  look  upon  the 
rich  as  their  natural  enemies,  or  desire  to  pillage  their  houses 
and  divide  their  property.  None  but  the  dissolute  among 
the  rich  speak  in  opprobrious  terms  of  the  vices  and  follies 
of  the  poor. 

There  is,  then,  no  class  distinction  between  idle  and  indus- 
trious people ; and  I am  going  to-night  to  speak  only  of  the 
industrious.  The  idle  people  we  will  put  out  of  our  thoughts 
at  once — they  are  mere  nuisances — what  ought  to  be  done 
wTith  them , we’ll  talk  of  at  another  time.  But  there  are  class 
distinctions  among  the  industrious  themselves ; — tremendous 
distinctions,  which  rise  and  fall  to  every  degree  in  the  infinite 
thermometer  of  human  pain  and  of  human  power — distinc- 
tions of  high  and  low,  of  lost  and  won,  to  the  whole  reach  of 
man’s  soul  and  body.  \ 

These  separations  we  will  study,  and  the  laws  of  them, 
among  energetic  men  only,  who,  whether  they  work 
or  whether  they  play,  put  their  strength  into  the 
work,  and  their  strength  into  the  game;  being  in  the  full 
sense  of  the  word  ‘industrious,’  one  way  or  another — 
with  a purpose,  or  without.  And  these  distinctions  are 
mainly  four : 

I.  Between  those  who  work,  and  those  who  play. 

II.  Between  those  who  produce  the  means  of  life,  and 
those  who  consume  them. 


8 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


III.  Between  those  who  work  with  the  head,  and  those 
who  work  with  the  hand. 

IY.  Between  those  who  work  wisely,  and  who  work  fool- 
ishly. 

For  easier  memory,  let  ns  say  we  are  going  to  oppose,  in 
onr  examination, — 

I.  W ork  to  play ; 

II.  Production  to  consumption  ; 

III.  Head  to  hand ; and, 

IY.  Sense  to  nonsense. 

I.  First,  then,  of  the  distinction  between  the  classes  who 
work  and  the  classes  who  play.  Of  course  we  must  agree 
upon  a definition  of  these  terms, — work  and  play, — before 
going  farther.  Now,  roughly,  not  with  vain  subtlety  of  defi- 
nition, but  fo^ plain  use  of  the  words,  ‘play’  is  an  exertion 
of  body  or  mind,  made  to  please  ourselves,  and  with  no 
determined  end ; and  work  is  a thing  done  because  it 
ought  to  be  done,  and  with  a determined  end.  You  play,  as 
you  call  it,  at  cricket,  for  instance.  That  is  as  hard  work  as 
anything  else ; but  it  amuses  you,  and  it  has  no  result  but 
the  amusement.  If  it  were  done  as  an  ordered  form  of  exer- 
cise, for  health’s  sake,  it  would  become  work  directly.  So, 
in  like  manner,  whatever  we  do  to  please  ourselves,  and  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  pleasure,  not  for  an  ultimate  object,  is  4 play,’ 
the  ‘pleasing  thing,’  not  the  useful  thing.  Play  may  be  useful 


WORK. 


1) 


in  a secondary  sense  (nothing  is  indeed  more  useful  or  neces- 
sary) ; but  the  use  of  it  depends  on  its  being  spontaneous. 

Let  us,  then,  enquire  together  what  sort  of  games  the  play- 
ing class  in  England  spend  their  lives  in  playing  at. 

The  first  of  all  English  games  is  making  money.  That  is 
an  all-absorbing  game ; and  we  knock  each  other  down  often- 
er  in  playing  at  that  than  at  foot-ball,  or  any  other  roughest 
sport ; and  it  is  absolutely  without  purpose ; no  one  who  en- 
gages heartily  in  that  game  ever  knows  why.  Ask  a great 
money-maker  what  he  wants  to  do  with  his  money — he  never 
knows.  He  doesn’t  make  it  to  do  anything  with  it.  He  gets 
it  only  that  he  may  get  it.  4 What  will  you  make  of  what 
you  have  got?’  you  ask.  ‘Well,  I’ll  get  more,’  he  says. 
Just  as,  at  cricket,  you  get  more  runs.  There’s  no  use  in 
the  runs,  but  to  get  more  of  them  than  other  people  is 
the  game.  And  there’s  no  use  in  the  money,  but  to  hayp 
more  of  it  than  other  people  is  the  game.  So  all  that  great 
foul  city  of  London  there, — rattling,  growling,  smoking, 
stinking, — a ghastly  heap  of  fermenting  brickwork,  pouring 
out  poison  at  every  pore, — you  fancy  it  is  a city  of  work  ? 
Not  a street  of  it!  It  is  a great  city  of  play;  very 
nasty  play,  and  very  hard  play,  but  still  play.  It  is  only 
Lord’s  cricket  ground  without  the  turf, — a huge  billiard  table 
without  the  cloth,  and  with  pockets  as  deep  as  the  bottomless 

pit ; but  mainly  a billiard  table,  after  all. 

1* 


10 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


Well,  the  first  great  English  game  is  this  playing  at  coun- 
ters. It  differs  from  the  rest  in  that  it  appears  always  to  be 
producing  money,  while  every  other  game  is  expensive.  But 
it  does  not  always  produce  money.  There’s  a great  differ- 
ence between  ‘winning’  money  and  ‘making’  it;  a great 
difference  between  getting  it  out  of  another  man’s  pocket 
into  ours,  or  filling  both.  Collecting  money  is  by  no  means 
the  same  thing  as  making  it ; the  tax-gatherer’s  house  is 
not  the  Mint ; and  much  of  the  apparent  gain  (so  called), 
in  commerce,  is  only  a form  of  taxation  on  carriage  or 
exchange. 

Our  next  great  English  game,  however,  hunting  and  shoot- 
ing, is  costly  altogether ; and  how  much  we  are  fined  for  it 
annually  in  land,  horses,  gamekeepers,  and  game  laws,  and  all 
else  that  accompanies  that  beautiful  and  special  English 
game,  I will  not  endeavour  to  count  now : but  note  only  that, 
except  for  exercise,  this  is  not  merely  a useless  game,  but  a 
deadly  one,  to  all  connected  with  it.  For  through  horse- 
racing, you  get  every  form  of  what  the  higher  classes  every- 
where call  ‘Play,’  in  distinction  from  all  other  plays;  that 
is — gambling  ; by  no  means  a beneficial  or  recreative  game : 
and,  through  game-preserving,  you  get  also  some  curious  lay- 
ing out  of  ground ; that  beautiful  arrangement  of  dwelling- 
house  for  man  and  beast,  by  which  We  have  grouse  and  black- 
cock— so  many  brace  to  the  acre,  and  men  and  women— so 


WORK. 


11 


many  brace  to  the  garret.  I often  wonder  what  the  angelic 
builders  and  surveyors — the  angelic  builders  who  build  the 
‘many  mansions’  up  above  there  ; and  the  angelic  surveyors, 
who  measured  that  four-square  city  with  their  measuring 
reeds — I wonder  what  they  think,  or  are  supposed  to  think, 
of  the  laying  out  of  ground  by  this  nation,  which  has  set  it- 
self, as  it  seems,  literally  to  accomplish,  word  for  word,  or 
rather  fact  for  word,  in  the  persons  of  those  poor  whom  its 
Master  left  to  represent  him,  what  that  Master  said  of  him- 
self— that  foxes  and  birds  had  homes,  but  He  none. 

Then,  next  to  the  gentlemen’s  game  of  hunting,  we  must 
put  the  ladies’  game  of  dressing.  It  is  not  the  cheapest  of 
games.  I saw  a brooch  at  a jeweller’s  in  Bond  Street  a fort- 
night ago,  not  an  inch  wide,  and  without  any  singular  jewel 
in  it,  yet  worth  3,000£.  And  I wish  I could  tell  you  what  this 
‘play’  costs,  altogether,  in  England,  France,  and  Russia  an- 
nually. But  it  is  a pretty  game,  and  on  certain  terms,  I like 
it ; nay,  I don’t  see  it  played  quite  as  much  as  I would  fain 
have  it.  You  ladies  like  to  lead  the  fashion: — by  all  means 
lead  it — lead  it  thoroughly,  lead  it  far  enough.  Dress  your- 
selves nicely,  and  dress  everybody  else  nicely.  Lead  the 
fashions  for  the  poor  first ; make  them  look  well,  and  you 
yourselves  will  look,  in  ways  of  which  you  have  now  no  con- 
ception, all  the  better.  The  fashions  you  have  set  for  some 
time  among  your  peasantry  are  not  pretty  ones  ; their  doub- 


12 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


lets  are  too  irregularly  slashed,  and  the  wind  blows  too 
frankly  through  them. 

Then  there  are  other  games,  wild  enough,  as  I could  show 
you  if  I had  time. 

There’s  playing  at  literature,  and  playing  at  art — very  dif- 
ferent, both,  from  working  at  literature,  or  working  at  art, 
but  I’ve  no  time  to  speak  of  these.  I pass  to  the  greatest  of 
all — the  play  of  plays,  the  great  gentlemen’s  game,  which 
ladies  like  them  best  to  play  at, — the  game  of  War.  It  is 
entrancingly  pleasant  to  the  imagination ; the  facts  of  it,  not 
always  so  pleasant.  We  dress  for  it,  however,  more  finely 
than  for  any  other  sport ; and  go  out  to  it,  not  merely  in 
scarlet,  as  to  hunt,  but  in  scarlet  and  gold,  and  all. manner  of 
fine  colours : of  course  we  could  fight  better  in  grey,  and 
without  feathers ; but  all  nations  have  agreed  that  it  is  good 
to  be  well  dressed  at  this  play.  Then  the  bats  and  balls  are 
very  costly  ; our  English  and  French  bats,  with  the  balls  and 
wickets,  even  those  which  we  don’t  make  any  use  of,  costing, 
I suppose,  now  about  fifteen  millions  of  money  annually  to 
each  nation ; all  of  which  you  know  is  paid  for  by  hard  labour- 
er’s work  in  the  furrow  and  furnace.  A costly  game ! — not 
to  speak  of  its  consequences ; I will  say  at  present  nothing  of 
these.  The  mere  immediate  cost  of  all  these  plays  is  what  I 
want  you  to  consider  ; they  all  cost  deadly  work  somewhere, 
as  many  of  us  know  too  well.  The  jewel-cutter,  whose  sight 


WORK. 


1 


fails  over  the  diamonds ; the  weaver,  whose  arm  fails  over 
the  web ; the  iron-forger,  whose  breath  fails  before  the  fur- 
nace— they  know  what  work  is — they,  who  have  all  the  work, 
and  none  of  the  play,  except  a kind  they  have  named  for 
themselves  down  in  the  black  north  country,  where  ‘play5 
means  being  laid  up  by  sickness.  It  is  a pretty  example  for 
philologists,  of  varying  dialect,  this  change  in  the  sense  of  the 
word  ‘play,’  as  used  in  the  black  country  of  Birmingham,  and 
the  red  and  black  country  of  Baden  Baden.  Yes,  gentlemen, 
and  gentlewomen,  of  England,  who  think  ‘ one  moment  un- 
amused  a misery,  not  made  for  feeble  man,5  this  is  what  you 
have  brought  the  word  4 play 5 to  mean,  in  the  heart  of  merry 
England ! You  may  have  your  fluting  and  piping  ; but  there 
are  sad  children  sitting  in  the  market-place,  who  indeed  can- 
not say  to  you,  ‘We  have  piped  unto  you,  and  ye  have  not 
danced:5  but  eternally  shall  say  to  you,  ‘We  have  mourned 
unto  you,  and  ye  have  not  lamented.’ 

This,  then,  is  the  first  distinction  between  the  ‘ upper  and 
lower 5 classes.  And  this  is  one  which  is  by  no  means  neces- 
sary ; which  indeed  must,  in  process  of  good  time,  be  by  all 
honest  men’s  consent  abolished.  Men  will  be  taught  that  an 
existence  of  play,  sustained  by  the  blood  of  other  creatures, 
is  a good  existence  for  gnats  and  sucking  fish ; but  not  for 
men  : that  neither  days,  nor  lives,  can  be  made  holy  by  doing 
nothing  in  them  : that  the  best  prayer  at  the  beginning  of  a 


14 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIYE. 


day  is  that  we  may  not  lose  its  moments  ; and  the  best  grace 
before  meat,  the  consciousness  that  we  have  justly  earned  our 
dinner.  And  when  we  have  this  much  of  plain  Christianity 
preached  to  us  again,  and  enough  respect  what  we  regard  as 
inspiration,  as  not  to  think  that  4 Son,  go  work  to-day  in  my 
vineyard,’  means  4 Fool,  go  play  to-day  in  my  vineyard,’  we 
shall  all  be  workers,  in  one  way  or  another ; and  this  much  at 
least  of  the  distinction  between 4 upper  ’ and  4 lower  ’ forgotten* 

II.  I pass  then  to  our  second  distinction ; between  the 
rich  and  poor,  between  Dives  and  Lazarus, — distinction 
which  exists  more  sternly,  I suppose,  in  this  day,  than  ever 
in  the  world,  Pagan  or  Christian,  till  now.  I will  put  it 
sharply  before  you,  to  begin  with,  merely  by  reading  two 
paragraphs  which  I cut  from  two  papers  that  lay  on  my 
breakfast  table  on  the  same  morning,  the  25th  of  November, 
1864.  The  piece  about  the  rich  Russian  at  Paris  is  common- 
place enough,  and  stupid  besides  (for  fifteen  francs, — 
125.  6c?., — is  nothing  for  a rich  man  to  give  for  a couple  of 
peaches,  out  of  season).  Still,  the  two  paragraphs  printed 
on  the  same  day  are  worth  putting  side  by  side. 

4 Such  a man  is  now  here.  He  is  a Russian,  and,  with 
your  permission,  we  will  call  him  Count  Teufelskine.  In 
dress  he  is  sublime ; art  is  considered  in  that  toilet,  the  har- 
mony of  colour  respected,  the  chiar*  oscuro  evident  in  well- 
selected  contrast.  In  manners  he  is  dignified — nay,  perhaps 


WORK. 


15 


apathetic ; nothing  disturbs  the  placid  serenity  of  that  calm 
exterior.  One  day  our  friend  breakfasted  chez  Bignon. 
When  the  bill  came  he  read,  “ Two  peaches,  15f.”  He  paid. 
“Peaches  scarce,  I presume?’’  was  his  sole  remark.  “No, 
sir,”  replied  the  waiter,  “ but  Teufelskines  are.”  ’ Tele- 
graph, November  25,  1864. 

4 Yesterday  morning,  at  eight  o’clock,  a woman,  passing 
a dung  heap  in  the  stone  yard  near  the  recently-erected 
almshouses  in  Shadwell  Gap,  High  Street,  Shadwell,  called 
the  attention  of  a Thames  police-constable  to  a man  in  a sit- 
ting position  on  the  dung  heap,  and  said  she  was  afraid  he 
was  dead.  Her  fears  proved  to  be  true.  The  wretched 
creature  appeared  to  have  been  dead  several  hours.  He 
had  perished  of  cold  and  wet,  and  the  rain  had  been  beating 
down  on  him  all  night.  The  deceased  was  a bone-picker. 
He  was  in  the  lowest  stage  of  poverty,  poorly  clad,  and 
half-starved.  The  police  had  frequently  driven  him  away 
from  the  stone  yard,  between  sunset  and  sunrise,  and  told 
him  to  go  home.  He  selected  a most  desolate  spot  for  his 
wretched  death.  A penny  and  some  bones  were  found  in 
his  pockets.  The  deceased  was  between  fifty  and  sixty  years 
of  age.  Inspector  Roberts,  of  the  K division,  has  given 
directions  for  inquiries  to  be  made  at  the  lodging-houses  res- 
pecting the  deceased,  to  ascertain  his  identity  if  possible.’ — 
Morning  Post , November  25,  1864. 


16 


THE  CEOWN  OF  WILD  OLIYE. 


You  have  the  separation  thus  in  brief  compass  ; and  I want* 
you  to  take  notice  of  the  c a penny  and  some  bones  were 
found  in  his  pockets,’  and  to  compare  it  with  this  third  state- 
ment, from  the  Telegraph  of  January  16th  of  this  year  : — 

c Again,  the  dietary  scale  for  adult  and  juvenile  paupers 
was  drawn  up  by  the  most  conspicuous  political  economists 
in  England.  It  is  low  in  quantity,  but  it  is  sufficient  to  sup-  * 
port  nature ; yet  within  ten  years  of  the  passing  of  the  Poor 
Law  Act,  we  heard  of  the  paupers  in  the  Andover  Union 
gnawing  the  scraps  of  putrid  flesh  and  sucking  the  marrow 
from  the  bones  of  horses  which  they  were  employed  to 
crush.’ 

You  see  my  reason  for  thinking  that  our  Lazarus  of  Chris- 
tianity has  some  advantage  over  the  Jewish  one.  Jewish 
Lazarus  expected,  or  at  least  prayed,  to  be  fed  with  crumbs 
from  the  rich  man’s  table;  but  our  Lazarus  is  fed  with 
crumbs  from  the  dog’s  table. 

Now  this  distinction  between  rich  and  poor  rests  on  two 
bases.  Within  its  proper  limits,  on  a basis  which  is  lawful 
and  everlastingly  necessary ; beyond  them,  on  a basis  unlaw- 
ful, and  everlastingly  corrupting  the  frame-work  of  society. 
The  lawful  basis  of  wealth  is,  that  a man  who  works  should  be 
paid  the  fair  value  of  his  work  ; and  that  if  he  does  not  choose 
to  spend  it  to-day,  he  should  have  free  leave  to  keep  it,  and 
spend  it  to-morrow.  Thus,  an  industrious  man  working 


WORK. 


17 


daily,  and  laying  by  daily,  attains  at  last  the  possession  of  an 
accumulated  sum  of  wealth,  to  which  he  has  absolute  right. 
The  idle  person  who  will  not  work,  and  the  wasteful  person 
who  lays  nothing  by,  at  the  end  of  the  same  time  will  be  dou- 
bly poor — poor  in  possession,  and  dissolute  in  moral  habit ; 
and  he  will  then  naturally  covet  the  money  which  the  other 
has  saved.  And  if  he  is  then  allowed  to  attack  the  other, 
and  rob  him  of  his  well-earned  wealth,  there  is  no  more 
any  motive  for  saving,  or  any  reward  for  good  conduct ; 
and  all  society  is  thereupon  dissolved,  or  exists  only  in  sys- 
tems of  rapine.  Therefore  the  first  necessity  of  social  life 
is  the  clearness  of  national  conscience  in  enforcing  the 
law — that  he  should  keep  who  has  justly  earned. 

That  law,  I say,  is  the  proper  basis  of  distinction  between 
rich  and  poor.  But  there  is  also  a false  basis  of  distinc- 
tion ; namely,  the  power  held  over  those  who  earn  wealth 
by  those  who  levy  or  exact  it.  There  will  be  always  a num- 
ber of  men  who  would  fain  set  themselves  to  the  accumu- 
lation of  wealth  as  the  sole  object  of  their  lives.  Neces- 
sarily, that  class  of  men  is  an  uneducated  class,  inferior  in 
intellect,  and  more  or  less  cowardly.  It  is  physically 
impossible  for  a well-educated,  intellectual,  or  brave  man 
to  make  money  the  chief  object  of  his  thoughts ; as  physi- 
cally impossible  as  it  is  for  him  to  make  his  dinner  the 
principal  object  of  them.  All  healthy  people  like  their 


18 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


dinners,  but  their  dinner  is  not  the  main  object  of  their 
lives.  So  all  healthily  minded  people  like  making  money — 
ought  to  like  it,  and  to  enjoy  the  sensation  of  winning  it; 
but  the  main  object  of  their  life  is  not  money ; it  is  some- 
thing better  than  money.  A good  soldier,  for  instance, 
mainly  wishes  to  do  his  fighting  well.  He  is  glad  of  his 
pay — very  properly  so,  and  justly  grumbles  when  you 
keep  him  ten  years  without  it — still,  his  main  notion  of  life 
is  to  win  battles,  not  to  be  paid  for  winning  them.  So 
of  clergymen.  They  like  pew-rents,  and  baptismal  fees, 
of  course ; but  yet,  if  they  are  brave  and  well  educated, 
the  pew-rent  is  not  the  sole  object  of  their  lives,  and  the 
baptismal  fee  is  not  the  sole  purpose  of  the  baptism ; the 
clergyman’s  object  is  essentially  to  baptize  and  preach,  not 
to  be  paid  for  preaching.  So  of  doctors.  They  like  fees 
no  doubt, — ought  to  like  them ; yet  if  they  are  brave  and 
well  educated,  the  entire  object  of  their  lives  is  not  fees. 
They,  on  the  whole,  desire  to  cure  the  sick ; and, — if  they 
are  good  doctors,  and  the  choice  were  fairly  put  to 
them, — would  rather  cure  their  patient,  and  lose  their  fee, 
than  kill  him,  and  get  it.  And  so  with  all  other  brave  and 
rightly  trained  men ; their  work  is  first,  their  fee  second — 
very  important  always,  but  still  second.  But  in  every 
nation,  as  I said,  there  are  a vast  class  who  are  ill-edu- 
cated, cowardly,  and  more  or  less  stupid.  And  with  these 


AVORK. 


19 


people,  just  as  certainly  the  fee  is  first,  and  the  work 
second,  as  with  brave  people  the  work  is  first  and  the  fee 
second.  And  this  is  no  small  distinction.  It  is  the  whole 
distinction  in  a man ; distinction  between  life  and  death  in 
him,  between  heaven  and  hell  for  him.  You  cannot  serve 
two  masters ; — you  must  serve  one  or  other.  If  your  work 
is  first  with  you,  and  your  fee  second,  work  is  your  master, 
and  the  lord  of  work,  who  is  God.  But  if  your  fee  is 
first  with  you,  and  your  work  second,  fee  is  your  master, 
and  the  lord  of  fee,  who  is  the  Devil ; and  not  only  the 
Devil,  but  the  lowest  of  devils — the  ‘least  erected  fiend 
that  fell.’  So  there  you  have  it  in  brief  terms;  Work 
first — you  are  God’s  servants ; Fee  first — you  are  the 
Fiend’s.  And  it  makes  a difference,  now  and  ever,  believe 
me,  whether  you  serve  Him  who  has  on  His  vesture  and 
thigh  written,  ‘King  of  Kings,’  and  whose  service  is  per- 
fect freedom ; or  him  on  whose  vesture  and  thigh  the 
name  is  written,  ‘Slave  of  Slaves,’  and  whose  service  is 
perfect  slavery. 

However,  in  every  nation  there  are,  and  must  always  be 
a certain  number  of  these  Fiend’s  servants,  who  have  it 
principally  for  the  object  of  their  lives  to  make  money. 
They  are  always,  as  I said,  more  or  less  stupid,  and  can- 
not conceive  of  anything  else  so  nice  as  money.  Stupidity 
is  always  the  basis  of  the  Judas  bargain.  We  do  great 


20 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


injustice  to  Iscariot,  in  thinking  him  wicked  above  all  com- 
mon wickedness.  He  was  only  a common  money-lover, 
and,  like  all  money-lovers,  didn’t  understand  Christ  ; — 
couldn’t  make  out  the  worth  of  Him,  or  meaning  of  Him. 
He  didn’t  want  Him  to  be  killed.  He  was  horror-struck 
when  he  found  that  Christ  would  be  killed ; threw  his 
mqpey  away  instantly,  and  hanged  himself.  How  many  of 
our  present  money-seekers,  think  you,  would  have  the  grace 
to  hang  themselves,  whoever  was  killed?  But  Judas  was 
a common,  selfish,  muddle-headed,  pilfering  fellow ; his 
hand  always  in  the  bag  of  the  poor,  not  caring  for  them. 
He  didn’t  understand  Christ; — yet  believed  in  Him,  much 
more  than  most  of  us  do;  had  seen  Him  do  miracles, 
thought  He  was  quite  strong  enough  to  shift  for  Himself, 
and  he,  Judas,  might  as  well  make  his  own  little  bye-per- 
quisites out  of  the  affair.  Christ  would  come  out  of  it 
well  enough,  and  he  have  his  thirty  pieces.  Now,  that  is 
the  money-seeker’s  idea,  all  over  the  world.  He  doesn’t 
hate  Christ,  * but  can’t  understand  Him — doesn’t  care  for 
Him — sees  no  good  in  that  benevolent  business ; makes  his 
own  little  job  out  of  it  at  all  events,  come  what  will.  And 
thus,  out  of  every  mass  of  men,  you  have  a certain  num- 
ber of  bag-men — your  c fee-first’  men,  whose  main  object  is 
to  make  money.  And  they  do  make  it — make  it  in  all 
sorts  of  unfair  ways,  chiefly  by  the  weight  and  force  of 


WORK. 


21 


money  itself,  or  what  is  called  the  power  of  capital ; that  is 
to  say,  the  power  which  money,  once  obtained,  has  over  the 
labour  of  the  poor,  so  that  the  capitalist  can  take  all  its 
produce  to  himself,  except  the  labourer’s  food.  That  is  the 
modern  Judas’s  way  of  4 carrying  the  bag,’  and  ‘bearing 
what  is  put  therein.’ 

Nay,  but  (it  is  asked)  how  is  that  an  unfair  advantage? 
Has  not  the  man  who  has  worked  for  the  money  a right  to 
use  it  as  he  best  can?  No;  in  this  respect,  money  is  now 
exactly  what  mountain  promontories  over  public  roads  were 
in  old  times.  The  barons  fought  for  them  fairly  : — the  strong- 
est and  cunningest  got  them  ; then  fortified  them,  and  made 
everyone  who  passed  below  pay  toll.  Well,  capital  now  is 
exactly  what  crags  were  then.  Men  fight  fairly  (we  will,  at 
least,  grant  so  much,  though  it  is  more  than  we  ought)  for 
their  money ; but,  once  having  got  it,  the  fortified  millionaire 
can  make  everybody  who  passes  below  pay  toll  to  his  million, 
and  build  another  tower  of  his  money  castle.  And  I can  tell 
you,  the  poor  vagrants  by  the  roadside  suffer  now  quite  as 
much  from  the  bag-baron,  as  ever  they  did  from  the  crag- 
baron.  Bags  and  crags  have  just  the  same  result  on  rags.  I 
have  not  time,  however,  to-night  to  show  you  in  how  many 
ways  the  power  of  capital  is  unjust ; but  this  one  great  prin- 
ciple I have  to  assert — you  will  find  it  quite  indisputably  true 
— that  whenever  money  is  the  principal  object  of  life  with 


22 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


either  man  or  nation,  it  is  both  got  ill,  and  spent  ill ; and  does 
harm  both  in  the  getting  and  spending ; but  when  it  is  not 
the  principal  object,  it  and  all  other  things  will  be  well  got, 
and  well  spent.  And  here  is  the  test,  with  every  man,  of 
whether  money  is  the  principal  object  with  him,  or  not.  If 
in  mid-life  he  could  pause  and  say,  “ Now  I have  enough  to 
live  upon,  I’ll  live  upon  it ; and  having  well  earned  it,  I will 
also  well  spend  it,  and  go  out  of  the  world  poor,  as  I came 
into  it,”  then  money  is  not  principal  with  him ; but  if,  having 
enough  to  live  upon  in  the  manner  befitting  his  character  and 
rank,  he  still  wants  to  make  more,  and  to  die  rich,  then  money 
is  the  principal  object  with  him,  and  it  becomes  a curse  to 
himself,  and  generally  to  those  who  spend  it  after  him.  For 
you  know  it  must  be  spent  some  day ; the  only  question  is 
whether  the  man  who  makes  it  shall  spend  it,  or  some  one 
else.  And  generally  it  is  better  for  the  maker  to  spend  it, 
for  he  will  know  best  its  value  and  use.  This  is  the  true  law 
of  life.  And  if  a man  does  not  choose  thus  to  spend  his 
money,  he  must  either  hoard  it  or  lend  it,  and  the  worst  thing 
he  can  generally  do  is  to  lend  it ; for  borrowers  are  nearly 
always  ill-spenders,  and  it  is  with  lent  money  that  all  evil  is 
mainly  done,  and  all  unjust  war  protracted. 

For  observe  what  the  real  fact  is,  respecting  loans  to  for- 
eign military  governments,  and  how  strange  it  is.  If  your 
little  boy  came  to  you  to  ask  for  money  to  spend  in  squibs 


WORK, 


23 


and  crackers,  you  would  think  twice  before  you  gave  it  him ; 
and  you  would  have  some  idea  that  it  was  wasted,  when  you 
saw  it  fly  off  in  fireworks,  even  though  he  did  no  mischief 
with  it.  But  the  Russian  children,  and  Austrian  children, 
come  to  you,  borrowing  money,  not  to  spend  in  innocent 
squibs,  but  in  cartridges  and  bayonets  to  attack  you  in  India 
with,  and  to  keep  down  all  noble  life  in  Italy  with,  and  to 
murder  Polish  women  and  children  with ; and  that  you  wTill 
give  at  once,  because  they  pay  you  interest  for  it.  Now,  in 
order  to  pay  you  that  interest,  they  must  tax  every  working 
peasant  in  their  dominions ; and  on  that  work  you  live.  You 
therefore  at  once  rob  the  Austrian  peasant,  assassinate  or 
banish  the  Polish  peasant,  and  you  live  on  the  produce  of  the 
theft,  and  the  bribe  for  the  assassination  ! That  is  the  broad 
fact — that  is  the  practical  meaning  of  your  foreign  loans,  and 
of  most  large  interest  of  money ; and  then  you  quarrel  with 
Bishop  Colenso,  forsooth,  as  if  he  denied  the  Bible,  and  you 
believed  it ! though,  wretches  as  you  are,  every  deliberate 
act  of  your  lives  is  a new  defiance  of  its  primary  orders  ; and 
as  if,  for  most  of  the  rich  men  of  England  at  this  moment,  it 
were  not  indeed  to  be  desired,  as  the  best  thing  at  least  for 
them , that  the  Bible  should  not  be  true,  since  against  them 
these  words  are  written  in  it : 4 The  rust  of  your  gold  and 
silver  shall  be  a witness  against  you,  and  shall  eat  your  flesh, 
as  it  wrere  fire.5 


24 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


III.  I pass  now  to  our  third  condition  of  separation,  be- 
tween the  men  who  work  with  the  hand,  and  those  who  work 
with  the  head. 

And  here  we  have  at  last  an  inevitable  distinction.  There 
7nust  be  work  done  by  the  arms,  or  none  of  us  could  live. 
There  must  be  work  done  by  the  brains,  or  the  life  we  get 
would  not  be  worth  having.  And  the  same  men  cannot  do 
both.  There  is  rough  work  to  be  done,  and  rough  men  must 
do  it ; there  is  gentle  work  to  be  done,  and  gentlemen 
must  do  it ; and  it  is  physically  impossible  that  one  class  should 
do,  or  divide,  the  work  of  the  other.  And  it  is  of  no  use  to 
try  to  conceal  this  sorrowful  fact  by  fine  words,  and  to  talk 
to  the  workman  about  the  honourableness  of  manual  labour, 
and  the  dignity  of  humanity.  That  is  a grand  old  proverb 
of  Sancho  Panza’s,  4 Fine  words  butter  no  parsnips  ; ’ and  I 
can  tell  you  that,  all  over  England  just  now,  you  workmen 
are  buying  a great  deal  too  much  butter  at  that  dairy.  Rough 
work,  honourable  or  not,  takes  the  life  out  of  us  ; and  the  man 
who  has  been  heaving  clay  out  of  a ditch  all  day,  or  driving 
an  express  train  against  the  north  wind  all  night,  or  holding 
a collier’s  helm  in  a gale  on  a lee-shore,  or  whirling  white  hot 
iron  at  a furnace  mouth,  that  man  is  not  the  same  at  the  end 
of  his  day,  or  night,  as  one  who  has  been  sitting  in  a quiet 
room,  with  everything  comfortable  about  him,  reading  books, 
or  classing  butterflies,  or  painting  pictures.  If  it  is  any  com- 


WORK. 


25 


fort  to  you  to  be  told  that  the  rough  work  is  the  more  honour- 
able of  the  two,  I should  be  sorry  to  take  that  much  of  con- 
solation from  you;  and  in  some  sense  I need  not.  The  rough 
work  is  at  all  events  real,  honest,  and,  generally,  though  not 
always,  useful ; while  the  fine  work  is,  a great  deal  of  it, 
foolish  and  false  as  well  as  fine,  and  therefore  dishonourable  : 
but  when  both  kinds  are  equally  well  and  worthily  done,  the 
head’s  is  the  noble  work,  and  the  hand’s  the  ignoble  ; and  of 
all  hand  work  whatsoever,  necessary  for  the  maintenance  of 
life,  those  old  words,  4 In  the  sweat  of  thy  face  thou  shalt  eat 
bread,’  indicate  that  the  inherent  nature  of  it  is  one  of  cala- 
mity ; and  that  the  ground,  cursed  for  our  sake,  casts  also 
some  shadow  of  degradation  into  our  contest  with  its  thorn 
and  its  thistle  ; so  that  all  nations  have  held  their  days  hon- 
ourable, or  4 holy,’  and  constituted  them  4 holydavs  ’ or 
4 holidays,’  by  making  them  days  of  rest ; and  the  promise, 
which,  among  all  our  distant  hopes,  seems  to  cast  the  chief 
brightness  over  death,  is  that  blessing  of  the  dead  who  die  in 
the  Lord,  that  4 they  rest  from  their  labours,  and  then- 
works  do  follow  them.’ 

And  thus  the  perpetual  question  and  contest  must  arise, 
who  is  to  do  this  rough  work  ? and  how  is  the  worker  of  it 
to  be  comforted,  redeemed,  and  rewarded  ? and  what  kind 
of  play  should  he  have,  and  what  rest,  in  this  world,  some- 
times, as  well  as  in  the  next?  Well,  my  good  working 


26 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


friends,  these  questions  will  take  a little  time  to  answer  yet. 
They  must  be  answered  : all  good  men  are  occupied  with 
them,  and  all  honest  thinkers.  There’s  grand  head  work 
doing  about  them ; but  much  must  be  discovered,  and  much 
attempted  in  vain,  before  anything  decisive  can  be  told 
you.  Only  note  these  few  particulars,  which  are  already 
sure. 

As  to  the  distribution  of  the  hard  work.  None  of  us,  or 
very  few  of  us,  do  either  hard  or  soft  work  because  we  think 
we  ought ; but  because  we  have  chanced  to  fall  into  the  way 
of  it,  and  cannot  help  ourselves.  Now,  nobody  does  any- 
thing well  that  they  cannot  help  doing : work  is  only  done 
well  when  it  is  done  with  a will ; and  no  man  has  a tho- 
roughly sound  will  unless  he  knows  he  is  doing  what  he 
should,  and  is  in  his  place.  And,  depend  upon  it,  all  work 
must  be  done  at  last,  not  in  a disorderly,  scrambling,  doggish 
way,  but  in  an  ordered,  soldierly,  human  way — a lawful 
way.  Men  are  enlisted  for  the  labour  that  kills — the  labour 
of  war : they  are  counted,  trained,  fed,  dressed,  and  praised  for 
that.  Let  them  be  enlisted  also  for  the  labour  that  feeds  : let 
them  be  counted,  trained,  fed,  dressed,  praised  for  that. 
Teach  the  plough  exercise  as  carefully  as  you  do  the  sword 
exercise,  and  let  the  officers  of  troops  of  life  be  held  as  much 
gentlemen' as  the  officers  of  troops  of  death  ; and  all  is  done  : 
but  neither  this,  nor  any  other  right  thing,  can  be  accom- 


WORK. 


27 


plished — you  can’t  even  see  your  way  to  it — unless,  first  of 
all,  both  servant  and  master  are  resolved  that,  come  what 
will  of  it,  they  will  do  each  other  justice.  People  are  per- 
petually squabbling  about  what  will  be  best  to  do,  or  easiest 
to  do,  or  adviseablest  to  do,  or  profitablest  to  do  ; but  they 
never,  so  far  as  I hear  them  talk,  ever  ask  what  it  is  just  to 
do.  And  it  is  the  law  of  heaven  that  you  shall  not  be  able  to 
judge  what  is  wise  or  easy,  unless  you  are  first  resolved  to 
judge  what  is  just,  and  to  do  it.  That  is  the  one  thing  con- 
stantly reiterated  by  our  Master — the  order  of  all  others  that 
is  given  oftenest — ‘Do  justice  and  judgment.’  That’s  your 
Bible  order;  that’s  the  ‘Service  of  God,’  not  praying  nor 
psalm-singing.  You  are  told,  indeed,  to  sing  psalms  when 
you  are  merry,  and  to  pray  when  you  need  anything ; and, 
by  the  perversion  of  the  Evil  Spirit,  we  get  to  think  that 
praying  and  psalm-singing  are  ‘service.’  If  a child  finds 
itself  in  want  of  anything,  it  runs  in  and  asks  its  father  for  it 
— does  it  call  that,  doing  its  father  a service  ? If  it  begs  for 
a toy  or  a piece  of  cake — does  it  call  that  serving  its  father  ? 
That,  with  God,  is  prayer,  and  He  likes  to  hear  it : He  likes 
you  to  ask  Him  for  cake  when  you  want  it ; but  He  does  n’t 
call  that  ‘ serving  Him.’  Begging  is  not  serving : God  likes 
mere  beggars  as  little  as  you  do — He  likes  honest  servants, 
not  beggars.  So  when  a child  loves  its  father  very  much, 
and  is  very  happy,  it  may  sing  little  songs  about  him ; but  it 


28 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


doesn’t  call  that  serving  its  father;  neither  is  singing  songs 
about  God,  serving  God.  It  is  enjoying  ourselves,  if  it ’s  any- 
thing ; most  probably  it  is  nothing ; but  if  it’s  anything,  it  is 
serving  ourselves,  not  God.  And  yet  we  are  impudent 
enough  to  call  our  beggings  and  chauntings  ‘Divine  Ser- 
vice : ’ we  say  c Divine  service  will  be  “ performed  ” ’ (that’s 
our  word — the  form  of  it  gone  through)  4 at  eleven  o’clock.5 
Alas ! — unless  we  perform  Divine  service  in  every  willing  act 
of  our  life,  we  never  perform  it  at  all.  The  one  Divine 
work — the  one  ordered  sacrifice — is  to  do  justice;  and  it  is 
the  last  we  are  ever  inclined  to  do.  Anything  rather  than 
that ! As  much  charity  as  you  choose,  but  no  justice. 
4 Nay,’ you  will  say,  4 charity  is  greater  than  justice.’  Yes, 
it  is  greater;  it  is  the  summit  of  justice — it  is  the  temple  of 
which  justice  is  the  foundation.  But  you  can’t  have  the  top 
without  the  bottom ; you  cannot  build  upon  charity.  You 
must  build  upon  justice,  for  this  main  reason,  that  you  have 
not,  at  first,  charity  to  build  with.  It  is  the  last  reward  of 
good  work.  Do  justice  to  your  brother  (you  can  do  that, 
whether  you  love  him  or  not),  and  you  will  come  to  love 
him.  But  do  injustice  to  him,  because  you  don’t  love  him ; 
and  you  will  come  to  hate  him.  It  is  all  very  fine  to  think 
you  can  build  upon  charity  to  begin  with ; but  you  will  find 
all  you  have  got  to  begin  with,  begins  at  home,  and  is  essenti- 
ally love  of  yourself.  You  well-to-do  people,  for  instance,  who 


WORK. 


29 


are  here  to-night,  will  go  to  4 Divine  service  ’ next  Sunday, 
all  nice  and  tidy,  and  your  little  children  will  have  their  tight 
little  Sunday  hoots  on,  and  lovely  little  Sunday  feathers  in 
their  hats ; and  you  ’ll  think,  complacently  and  piously,  how 
lovely  they  look  ! So  they  do  : and  you  love  them  heartily, 
and  you  like  sticking  feathers  in  their  hats.  That ’s  all  right : 
that  is  charity  ; hut  it  is  charity  beginning  at  home.  Then 
you  will  come  to  the  poor  little  crossing-sweeper,  got  up 
also, — it,  in  its  Sunday  dress, — the  dirtiest  rags  it  has, — that 
it  may  heg  the  better : we  shall  give  it  a penny,  and  think 
how  good  we  are.  That’s  charity  going  abroad.  But  what 
does  Justice  say,  walking  and  watching  near  us  ? Christian  # 
Justice  has  been  strangely  mute,  and  seemingly  blind  ; and, 
if  not  blind,  decrepit,  this  many  a day:  she  keeps  her  ac- 
counts still,  however — quite  steadily — doing  them  at  nights, 
carefully,  with  her  bandage  off,  and  through  acutest  specta- 
cles (the  only  modern  scientific  invention  she  cares  about). 
You  must  put  your  ear  down  ever  so  close  to  her  lips  to  hear 
her  speak  ; and  then  you  will  start  at  what  she  first  whispers, 
for  it  will  certainly  be,  4 Why  shouldn’t  that  little  crossing- 
sweeper  have  a feather  on  its  head,  as  well  as  your  own 
child  ?’  Then  you  may  ask  Justice,  in  an  amazed  manner, 

4 How  she  can  possibly  be  so  foolish  as  to  think  children 
could  sweep  crossings  with  feathers  on  their  heads  ?’  Then 
you  stoop  again,  and  Justice  says — still  in  her  dull,  stupid 


30 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIYE. 


way — ‘ 'Then,  why  don’t  you,  every  other  Sunday,  leave  your 
child  to  sweep  the  crossing,  and  take  the  little  sweeper  to 
church  in  a hat  and  feather  ? ’ Mercy  on  us  (you  think), 
what  will  she  say  next  ? And  you  answer,  of  course,  that 
‘ you  don’t,  because  every  body  ought  to  remain  content  in 
the  position  in  which  Providence  has  placed  them.’  Ah,  my 
friends,  that ’s  the  gist  of  the  whole  question.  Did  Provi- 
dence put  them  in  that  position,  or  did  you?  You  knock  a 
man  into  a ditch,  and  then  you  tell  him  to  remain  content  in 
the  ‘ position  in  which  Providence  has  placed  him.’  That’s 
modern  Christianity.  You  say — c We  did  not  knock  him 
into  the  ditch.’  How  do  you  know  what  you  have  done,  or 
are  doing?  That’s  just  what  we  have  all  got  to  know,  and 
what  we  shall  never  know,  until  the  question  with  us  every 
morning,  is,  not  how  to  do  the  gainful  thing,  but  how  to  do 
the  just  thing ; nor  until  we  are  at  least  so  far  on  the  way  to 
being  Christian,  as  to  have  understood  that  maxim  of  the 
poor  half-way  Mahometan,  ‘One  hour  in  the  execution  of 
justice  is  worth  seventy  years  of  prayer.’ 

Supposing,  then,  we  have  it  determined  with  appropriate 
justice,  who  is  to  do  the  hand  work,  the  next  questions  must 
be  how  the  hand- workers  are  to  be  paid,  and  how  they  are 
to  be  refreshed,  and  what  play  they  are  to  have.  Now,  the 
possible  quantity  of  play  depends  on  the  possible  quantity  of 
pay ; and  the  quantity  of  pay  is  not  a matter  for  conside- 


WORK. 


31 

ration  to  band-workers  only,  but  to  all  workers.  Generally, 
good,  useful  work,  whether  of  the  hand  or  head,  is  either 
ill-paid,  or  not  paid  at  all.  I don’t  say  it  should  be  so,  but 
it  always  is  so.  People,  as  a rule,  only  pay  for  being  amused 
or  being  cheated,  not  for  being  served.  Five  thousand  a 
year  to  your  talker,  and  a shilling  a day  to  your  fighter, 
digger,  and  thinker,  is  the  rule.  None  of  the  best  head 
work  in  art,  literature,  or  science,  is  ever  paid  for.  How 
much  do  you  think  Homer  got  for  his  Iliad  ? or  Dante  for  his 
Paradise  ? only  bitter  bread  and  salt,  and  going  up  and  down 
other  people’s  stairs.  In  science,  the  man  who  discovered 
the  telescope,  and  first  saw  heaven,  was  paid  with  a dun- 
geon ; the  man  who  invented  the  microscope,  and  first  saw 
earth,  died  of  starvation,  driven  from  his  home : it  is  indeed 
very  clear  that  God  means  all  thoroughly  good  work  and 
talk  to  be  done  for  nothing.  Baruch,  the  scribe,  did  not 
get  a penny  a line  for  writing  Jeremiah’s  second  roll  for  him, 
I fancy ; and  St.  Stephen  did  not  get  bishop’s  pay  for  that 
long  sermon  of  his  to  the  Pharisees ; nothing  but  stones. 
For  indeed  that  is  the  world-father’s  proper  payment.  So 
surely  as  any  of  the  world’s  children  work  for  the  world’s 
good,  honestly,  with  head  and  heart ; and  come  to  it,  saying, 
4 Give  us  a little  bread,  just  to  keep  the  life  in  us,’  the  world- 
father  answers  them,  4 No,  my  children,  not  bread;  a stone, 
if  you  like,  or  as  many  as  you  need,  to  keep  you  quiet.’  But 


32 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


the  hand-workers  are  not  so  ill  off  as  all  this  comes  to.  The 
worst  that  can  happen  to  you  is  to  break  stones;  not  be 
broken  by  them.  And  for  you  there  will  come  a time  for 
better  payment;  some  day,  assuredly,  more  pence  will  be 
paid  to  Peter  the  Fisherman,  and  fewer  to  Peter  the  Pope ; 
we  shall  pay  people  not  quite  so  much  for  talking  in  Parlia- 
ment and  doing  nothing,  as  for  holding  their  tongues  out 
of  it  and  doing  something;  we  shall  pay  our  ploughman  a 
little  more  and  our  lawyer  a little  less,  and  so  on : but,  at 
least,  we  may  even  now  take  care  that  whatever  work  is 
done  shall  be  fully  paid  for ; and  the  man  who  does  it  paid 
for  it,  not  somebody  else ; and  that  it  shall  be  done  in  an 
orderly,  soldierly,  well-guided,  wholesome  way,  under  good 
captains  and  lieutenants  of  labour;  and  that  it  shall  have  its 
appointed  times  of  rest,  and  enough  of  them;  and  that  in 
those  times  the  play  shall  be  wholesome  play,  not  in  theatri- 
cal gardens,  with  tin  flowers  and  gas  sunshine,  and  girls 
dancing  because  of  their  misery;  but  in  true  gardens,  with 
real  flowers,  and  real  sunshine,  and  children  dancing  because 
of  their  gladness ; so  that  truly  the  streets  shall  be  full  (the 
c streets,’  mind  you,  not  the  gutters)  of  children,  playing  in 
the  midst  thereof.  We  may  take  care  that  working-men 
shall  have  at  least  as  good  books  to  read  as  anybody  else, 
when  they’ve  time  to  read  them ; and  as  comfortable  firesides 
to  sit  at  as  anybody  else,  when  they’ve  time  to  sit  at  them. 


WORK. 


33 


This,  I think,  can  be  managed  for  you,  my  working  friends, 
in  the  good  time. 

IV.  I must  go  on,  however,  to  onr  last  head,  concerning 
ourselves  all,  as  workers.  What  is  wise  work,  and  what  is 
foolish  work  ? What  the  difference  between  sense  and  non- 
sense, in  daily  occupation  ? 

Well,  wise  work  is,  briefly,  work  with  God.  Foolish  work 
is  work  against  God.  And  work  done  with  God,  which  He 
will  help,  may  be  briefly  described  as  ‘Putting  in  Order’ — 
that  is,  enforcing  God’s  law  of  order,  spiritual  and  material, 
over  men  and  things.  The  first  thing  you  have  to  do,  essen- 
tially; the  real  ‘good  work’  is,  with  respect  to  men,  to 
enforce  justice,  and  with  respect  to  things,  to  enforce  tidi- 
ness, and  fruitfulness.  And  against  these  two  great  human 
deeds,  justice  and  order,  there  are  perpetually  two  great 
demons  contending, — the  devil  of  iniquity,  or  inequity,  and 
the  devil  of  disorder,  or  of  death ; for  death  is  only  consum- 
mation of  disorder.  You  have  to  fight  these  two  fiends  daily. 
So  far  as  you  don’t  fight  against  the  fiend  of  iniquity,  you 
work  for  him.  You  ‘ work  iniquity,’  and  the  judgment  upon 
you,  for  all  your  ‘ Lord,  Lord’s,’  will  be  ‘ Depart  from  me, 
ye  that  work  iniquity.’  And  so  far  as  you  do  not  resist  the 
fiend  of  disorder,  you  work  disorder,  and  you  yourself  do 
the  work  of  Death,  which  is  sin,  and  has  for  its  wages,  Death 
himself. 


2* 


84 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


Observe  then,  all  wise  work  is  mainly  threefold  in  charac- 
ter. It  is  honest,  useful,  and  cheerful. 

I.  It  is  honest.  I hardly  know  anything  more  strange 
than  that  you  recognise  honesty  in  play,  and  you  do  not  in 
work.  In  your  lightest  games,  you  have  always  some  one 
to  see  what  you  call  ‘fair-play.’  In  boxing,  you  must  hit 
fair;  in  racing,  start  fair.  Your  English  watchword  is  fair- 
play,  your  English  hatred,  foul-play.  Did  it  ever  strike  you 
that  you  wanted  another  watchword  also,  fair-work,  and 
another  hatred  also,  foul-work  ? Your  prize-fighter  has 
some  honour  in  him  yet ; and  so  have  the  men  in  the  ring 
round  him:  they  will  judge  him  to  lose  the  match,  by  foul 
hitting.  But  your  prize-merchant  gains  his  match  by  foul 
selling,  and  no  one  cries  out  against  that.  You  drive  a 
gambler  out  of  the  gambling-room  who  loads  dice,  but  you 
leave  a tradesman  in  flourishing  business,  who  loads  scales ! 
For  observe,  all  dishonest  dealing  is  loading  scales.  What 
does  it  matter  whether  I get  short  weight,  adulterate  sub- 
stance, or  dishonest  fabric  ? The  fault  in  the  fabric  is  incom- 
parably the  worst  of  the  two.  Give  me  short  measure  of 
food,  and  I only  lose  by  you ; but  give  me  adulterate  food, 
and  I die  by  you.  Here,  then,  is  your  chief  duty,  you  work- 
men and  tradesmen — to  be  true  to  yourselves,  and  to  us  who 
would  help  you.  We  can  do  nothing  for  you,  nor  you  for 
yourselves,  without  honesty.  Get  that,  you  get  all ; with- 


WORK. 


35 


out  that,  your  suffrages,  your  reforms,  your  free-trade  mea- 
sures, your  institutions  of  science,  are  all  in  vain.  It  is  use- 
less to  put  your  heads  together,  if  you  can’t  put  your  hearts 
together.  Shoulder  to  shoulder,  right  hand  to  right  hand, 
among  yourselves,  and  no  wrong  hand  to  anybody  else,  and 
you’ll  win  the  world  yet. 

II.  Then,  secondly,  wise  work  is  useful.  No  man  minds, 
or  ought  to  mind,  its  being  hard,  if  only  it  comes  to  some- 
thing ; but  when  it  is  hard,  and  comes  to  nothing ; when  all 
our  bees’  business  turns  to  spiders’ ; and  for  honey-comb  we 
have  only  resultant  cobweb,  blown  away  by  the  next  breeze 
— that  is  the  cruel  thing  for  the  worker.  Yet  do  vve  ever 
ask  ourselves,  personally,  or  even  nationally,  whether  our 
work  is  coming  to  anything  or  not  ? We  don’t  care  to  keep 
what  has  been  nobly  done ; still  less  do  we  care  to  do  nobly 
what  others  would  keep ; and,  least  of  all,  to  make  the  work 
itself  useful  instead  of  deadly  to  the  doer,  so  as  to  use  his 
life  indeed,  but  not  to  waste  it.  Of  all  wastes,  the  greatest 
waste  that  you  can  commit  is  the  waste  of  labour.  you 
went  down  in  the  morning  into  your  dairy,  and  you,  found 
that  your  youngest  child  had  got  down  before  you;  and 
that  he  and  the  cat  were  at  play  together,  and  that  he  had 
poured  out  all  the  cream  on  the  floor  for  the  cat  to  lap  up, 
you  would  scold  the  child,  and  be  sorry  the  milk  was  wasted. 
But  if,  instead  of  wooden  bowls  with  milk  in  them,  there 


36 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


are  golden  bowls  with  human  life  in  them,  and  instead  of 
the  cat  to  play  with — the  devil  to  play  with ; and  you  your- 
self the  player ; and  instead  of  leaving  that  golden  bowl  to 
be  broken  by  God  at  the  fountain,  you  break  it  in  the  dust 
yourself,  and  pour  the  human  blood  out  on  the  ground  for 
the  fiend  to  lick  up — that  is  no  waste ! What ! you  perhaps 
think,  c to  waste  the  labour  of  men  is  not  to  kill  them.’  Is  it 
not  ? I should  like  to  know  how  you  could  kill  them  more 
utterly — kill  them  with  second  deaths,  seventh  deaths,  hun- 
dredfold deaths  ? It  is  the  slightest  way  of  killing  to  stop 
a man’s  breath.  Nay,  the  hunger,  and  the  cold,  and  the 
little  whistling  bullets — our  love-messengers  between  nation 
and  nation — have  brought  pleasant  messages  from  us  to 
many  a man  before  now ; orders  of  sweet  release,  and  leave 
at  last  to  go  where  he  will  be  most  welcome  and  most 
happy.-  At  the  worst  you  do  but  shorten  his  life,  you  do 
not  corrupt  his  life.  But  if  you  put  him  to  base  labour,  if 
you  bind  his  thoughts,  if  you  blind  his  eyes,  if  you  blunt  his 
hopes^  if  you  steal  his  joys,  if  you  stunt  his  body,  and  blast 
his  soul,  and  at  last  leave  him  not  so  much  as  to  reap  the 
poor  fruit  of  his  degradation,  but  gather  that  for  yourself, 
and  dismiss  him  to  the  grave,  when  you  have  done  with  him, 
having,  so  far  as  in  you  lay,  made  the  walls  of  that  grave 
everlasting  (though,  indeed,  I fancy  the  goodly  bricks  of 
some  of  our  family  vaults  will  hold -closer  in  the  resurrection 


WORK. 


37 


day  than  the  sod  over  the  labourer’s  head),  this  you  think  is 
no  waste,  and  no  sin ! 

III.  Then,  lastly,  wise  work  is  cheerful,  as  a child’s  work 

is.  And  now  I want  you  to  take  one  thought  home  with 
you,  and  let  it  stay  with  you. 

Everybody  in  this  room  has  been  taught  to  pray  daily, 
‘Thy  kingdom  come.’  Now,  if  we  hear  a man  swear  in  the 
streets,  we  think  it  very  wrong,  and  say  he  ‘takes  God’s 
name  in  vain.’  But  there ’s  a twenty  times  worse  way  of 
taking  His  name  in  vain,  than  that.  It  is  to  ask  God  for 
what  we  don't  leant . He  does  n’t  like  that  sort  of  prayer.  If 
you  don’t  want  a thing,  don’t  ask  for  it : such  asking  is  the 
worst  mockery  of  your  King  you  can  mock  Him  with ; the 
soldiers  striking  Him  on  the  head  with  the  reed  was  nothing 
to  that.  If  you  do  not  wish  for  His  kingdom,  don’t  pray  for 

it.  But  if  you  do,  you  must  do  more  than  pray  for  it ; you 
must  work  for  it.  And,  to  work  for  it,  you  must  know  what 
it  is : wTe  have  all  prayed  for  it  many  a day  without  thinking. 
Observe,  it  is  a kingdom  that  is  to  come  to  us ; we  are  not 
to  go  to  it.  Also,  it  is  not  to  be  a kingdom  of  the  dead,  but 
of  the  living.  Also,  it  is  not  to  come  all  at  once,  but  quietly ; 
nobody  knows  how.  ‘ The  kingdom  of  God  cometh  not  with 
observation.’  Also,  it  is  not  to  come  outside  of  us,  but  in 
the  hearts  of  us:  ‘the  kingdom  of  God  is  within  you.’  And, 
being  within  us,  it  is  not  a thing  to  be  seen,  but  to  be  felt ; 


,_nT. 

r.ott«sr.  U 


1 \ jlU 


38 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIYE. 


and  though  it  brings  all  substance  of  good  with  it,  it  does 
not  consist  in  that : 4 the  kingdom  of  God  is  not  meat  and 
drink,  but  righteousness,  peace,  and  joy  in  the  Holy  Ghost:’ 
joy,  that  is  to  say,  in  the  holy,  healthful,  and  helpful  Spirit. 
Now,  if  we  want  to  work  for  this  kingdom,  and  to  bring 
it,  and  enter  into  it,  there ’s  just  one  condition  to  be  first 
accepted.  You  must  enter  it  as  children,  or  not  at  all; 
4 Whosoever  will  not  receive  it  as  a little  child  shall  not  enter 
therein.’  And  again,  ‘Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto 
me,  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of 
heaven.’ 

Of  such , observe.  Not  of  children  themselves,  but  of  such 
as  children.  I believe  most  mothers  who  read  that  text 
think  that  all  heaven  is  to  be  full  of  babies.  But  that ’s  not 
so.  There  will  be  children  there,  but  the  hoary  head  is  the 
crown.  4 Length  of  days,  and  long  life  and  peace,’  that  is 
the  blessing,  not  to  die  in  babyhood.  Children  die  but  for 
their  parents’  sins  ; God  means  them  to  live,  but  He  can’t  let 
them  always  ; then  they  have  their  earlier  place  in  heaven  : 
and  the  little  child  of  David,  vainly  prayed  for ; — the  little 
child  of  Jeroboam,  killed  by  its  mother’s  step  on  its  own 
threshold, — they  will  be  there.  But  weary  old  David,  and 
weary  old  Barzillai,  having  learned  children’s  lessons  at  last, 
will  be  there  too  . and  the  one  question  for  us  all,  young  or 
old,  is,  have  we  learned  our  child’s  lesson  ? it  is  the  character  cf 


WORK. 


39 


children  we  want,  and  must  gain  at  our  peril ; let  us  see, 
briefly,  in  what  it  consists. 

The  first  character  of  right  childhood  is  that  it  is  Modest. 
A well-bred  child  does  not  think  it  can  teach  its  parents,  or 
that  it  knows  everything.  It  may  think  its  father  and 
mother  know  everything, — perhaps  that  all  grown-up  people 
know  everything ; very  certainly  it  is  sure  that  it  does  not. 
And  it  is  always  asking  questions,  and  wanting  to  know 
more.  Well,  that  is  the  first  character  of  a good  and  wise 
man  at  his  work.  To  know  that  he  knows  very  little ; — to 
perceive  that  there  are  many  above  him  wiser  than  he  ; and 

to  be  always  asking  questions,  wanting  to  learn,  not  to  teach. 

% 

No  one  ever  teaches  well  who  wants  to  teach,  or  governs 
well  who  wants  to  govern ; it  is  an  old  saying  (Plato’s, 
but  I know  not  if  his,  first),  and  as  wise  as  old. 

Then,  the  second  character  of  right  childhood  is  to  be 
Faithful.  Perceiving  that  its  father  knows  best  what  is  good 
for  it,  and  having  found  always,  when  it  has  tried  its  own 
way  against  his,  that  he  was  right  and  it  was  wrong,  a noble 
child  trusts  him  at  last  wholly,  gives  him  its  hand,  and  will 
walk  blindfold  with  him,  if  he  bids  it.  And  that  is  the  true 
character  of  all  good  men  also,  as  obedient  workers,  or  sol- 
diers under  captains.  They  must  trust  their  captains  ; — they 
are  bound  for  their  lives  to  choose  none  but  those  whom  they 
can  trust.  Then,  they  are  not  always  to  be  thinking  that 


40 


THE  CEOWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


what  seems  strange  to  them,  or  wrong  in  what  they  are 
desired  to  do,  is  strange  or  wrong.  They  know  their  cap- 
tain : where  he  leads  they  must  follow,  what  he  bids,  they 
must  do ; and  without  this  trust  and  faith,  without  this 
captainship  and  soldiership,  no  great  deed,  no  great  salvation, 
is  possible  to  man.  Among  all  the  nations  it  is  only  when 
this  faith  is  attained  by  them  that  they  become  great : the 
Jew,  the  Greek,  and  the  Mahometan,  agree  at  least  in  testify- 
ing to  this.  It  was  a deed  of  this  absolute  trust  which  made 
Abraham  the  father  of  the  faithful ; it  was  the  declaration  of 
the  power  of  God  as  captain  over  all  men,  and  the  acceptance 
of  a leader  appointed  by  Him  as  commander  of  the  faithful, 
which  laid  the  foundation  of  whatever  national  power  yet 
exists  in  the  East;  and  the  deed  of  the  Greeks,  which  has 
become  the  type  of  unselfish  and  noble  soldiership  to  all 
lands,  and  to  all  times,  was  commemorated,  on  the  tomb  of 
those  who  gave  their  lives  to  do  it,  in  the  most  pathetic,  so 
far  as  I know,  or  can  feel,  of  all  human  utterances:  4 Oh, 
stranger,  go  and  tell  our  people  that  we  are  lying  here, 
having  obeyed  their  words.’ 

Then  the  third  character  of  right  childhood  is  to  be  Loving 
and  Generous.  Give  a little  love  to  a child,  and  you  get  a 
great  deal  back.  It  loves  everything  near  it,  when  it  is  a 
right  kind  of  child — would  hurt  nothing,  would  give  the  best 
it  has  away,  always,  if  you  need  it — does  not  lay  plans  for 


WORK. 


41 


getting  everything  in  the  house  for  itself,  and  delights  in 
helping  people ; you  cannot  jflease  it  so  much  as  by  giving  it 
a chance  of  being  useful,  in  ever  so  little  a way. 

And  because  of  all  these  characters,  lastly,  it  is  Cheerful. 
Putting  its  trust  in  its  father,  it  is  careful  for  nothing — being 
full  of  love  to  every  creature,  it  is  happy  always,  whether  in 
its  play  or  in  its  duty.  Well,  that’s  the  great  worker’s  cha- 
racter also.  Taking  no  thought  for  the  morrow;  taking 
thought  only  for  the  duty  of  the  day ; trusting  somebody  else 
to  take  care  of  to-morrow  ; knowing  indeed  what  labour  is,  but 
not  what  sorrow  is;  and  always  ready  for  play — beautiful 
play, — for  lovely  human  play  is  like  the  play  of  the  Sun. 
There ’s  a worker  for  you.  He,  steady  to  his  time,  is  set  as  a 
strong  man  to  run  his  course,  but  also,  he  rejoiceth  as  a strong 
man  to  run  his  course.  See  how  he  plays  in  the  morning, 
with  the  mists  below,  and  the  clouds  above,  with  a ray  here 
and  a flash  there,  and  a shower  of  jewels  everywhere  ; — that’s 
the  Sun’s  play ; and  great  human  play  is  like  his — all  various 
— all  full  of  light  and  life,  and  tender,  as  the  dew  of  the 
morning. 

So  then,  you  have  the  child’s  character  in  these  jour  things — 
Humility,  Faith,  Charity,  and  Cheerfulness.  That’s  what  you 
have  got  to  be  converted  to.  c Except  ye  be  converted  and  be- 
come as  little  children  ’ — You  hear  much  of  conversion  now- 
adays ; but  people  always  seem  to  think  they  have  got  to  be 


42 


THE  CROWN  OP  WILD  OLIVE. 


made  wretched  by  conversion, — to  be  converted  to  long 
faces.  No,  friends,  you  have  got  to  be  converted  to  short 
ones;  you  have  to  repent  into  childhood,  to  repent  into 
delight,  and  delightsomeness.  You  can’t  go  into  a con- 
venticle but  you’ll  hear  plenty  of  talk  of  backsliding. 
Backsliding,  indeed!  I can  tell  you,  on  the  ways  most 
of  us  go,  the  faster  we  slide  back  the  better.  Slide  back 
into  the  cradle,  if  going  on  is  into  the  grave — back,  I 
tell  you ; back — out  of  your  long  faces,  and  into  your 
long  clothes.  It  is  among  children  only,  and  as  ‘children 
only,  that  you  will  find  medicine  for  your  healing  and 
true  wisdom  for  your  teaching.  There  is  poison  in  the 
counsels  of  the  men  of  this  world ; the  words  they  speak 
are  all  bitterness,  ‘the  poison  of  asps  is  under  their  lips,’ 
but,  4 the  sucking  child  shall  play  by  the  hole  of  the 
asp.’  There  is  death  in  the  looks  of  men.  4 Their  eyes 
are  privily  set  against  the  poor ;’  they  are  as  the  uncharm- 
able  serpent,  the  cockatrice,  which  slew  by  seeing.  But 
4 the  weaned  child  shall  lay  his  hand  on  the  cockatrice 
den.’  There  is  death  in  the  steps  of  men : 4 their  feet 
are  swift  to  shed  blood ; they  have  compassed  us  in 
our  steps  like  the  lion  that  is  greedy  of  his  prey,  and 
the  young  lion  lurking  in  secret  places,’  but,  in  that  king- 
dom, the  wolf  shall  lie  down  with  the  iamb,  and  the 
fatling  with  the  lion,  and  4 a little  child  shall  lead  them.’ 


WORK. 


48 


There  is  death  in  the  thoughts  of  men : the  world  is 
one  wide  riddle  to  them,  darker  and  darker  as  it  draws 
to  a close ; but  the  secret  of  it  is  known  to  the  child, 
and  the  Lord  of  heaven  and  earth  is  most  to  be  thanked 
in  that  4 He  has  hidden  these  things  from  the  wise  and 
prudent,  and  has  revealed  them  unto  babes.’  Yes,  and  there 
is  death — infinitude  of  death  in  the  principalities  and 
powers  of  men.  As  far  as  the  east  is  from  the  west, 
so  far  our  sins  are — not  set  from  us,  but  multiplied  around 
us : the’  Sun  himself,  think  you  he  now  4 rejoices  ’ to  run 
his  course,  when  he  plunges  westward  to  the  horizon,  so 
widely  red,  not  with  clouds,  but  blood  ? And  it  will  be 
red  more  widely  yet.  Whatever  drought  of  the  early 
and  latter  rain  may  be,  there  will  be  none  of  that  red 
rain.  You  fortify  yourselves,  you  arm  yourselves  against 
it  in  vain  ; the  enemy  and  avenger  will  be  upon  you  also, 
unless  you  learn  that  it  is  not  out  of  the  mouths  of  the 
knitted  gun,  or  the  smoothed  rifle,  but  4 out  of  the 
mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings  ’ that  the  strength  is  ordain- 
ed, which  shall  4 still  the  enemy  and  avenger.’ 


* 


i 


TRAFFIC. 


> .1  . i 


LECTURE  II. 


TRAFFIC. 

(. Delivered  in  the  Town  Hall , Bradford.) 

My  good  Yorkshire  friends,  you  asked  me  down  here 
among  your  hills  that  I might  talk  to  you  about  this 
Exchange  you  are  going  to  build:  but  earnestly  and  seriously 
asking  you  to  pardon  me,  I am  going  to  do  nothing  of 
the  kind.  I cannot  talk,  or  at  least  can  say  very  little, 
about  this  same  Exchange.  I must  talk  of  quite  other 
tilings,  though  not  willingly; — I could  not  deserve  your 
pardon,  if  when  you  invited  me  to  speak  on  one  subject, 
I wilfully  spoke  on  another.  But  I cannot  speak,  to 
purpose,  of  anything  about  which  I do  not  care ; and  most 
simply  and  sorrowfully  I have  to  tell  you,  in  the  outset,  that 
I do  not  care  about  this  Exchange  of  yours. 

If,  however,  when  you  sent  me  your  invitation,  I had 
answered,  4 1 won’t  come,  I don’t  care  about  the  Exchange 
of  Bradford,’  you  would  have  been  justly  offended  with 
me,  not  knowing  the  reasons  of  so  blunt  a carelessness. 
So  I have  come  down,  hoping  that  you  will  patiently  let 
me  tell  you  why,  on  this,  and  many  other  such  occasions, 


48 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


I now  remain  silent,  when  formerly  I should  have  caught 
at  the  opportunity  of  speaking  to  a gracious  audience. 

In  a word,  then,  I do  not  care  about  this  Exchange, — 
because  you  don’t;  and  because  you  know  perfectly  well 
I cannot  make  you.  Look  at  the  essential  circumstances 
of  the  case,  wThich  you,  as  business  men,  know  perfectly 
well,  though  perhaps  you  think  I forget  them.  You  are 
going  to  spend  30,000£.,  which  to  you,  collectively,  is  nothing ; 
the  buying  a new  coat  is,  as  to  the  cost  of  it,  a much 
more  important  matter  of  consideration  to  me  than  building 
a new  Exchange  is  to  you.  But  you  think  you  may  as 
well  have  the  right  thing  for  your  money.  You  know 
there  are  a great  many  odd  styles  of  architecture  about ; 
you  don’t  want  to  do  anything  ridiculous;  you  hear  of 
me,  among  others,  as  a respectable  architectural  man-milliner  : 
and  you  send  for  me,  that  I may  tell  you  the  leading 
fashion ; and  what  is,  in  our  shops,  for  the  moment,  the 
newest  and  sweetest  thing  in  pinnacles. 

Now,  pardon  me  for  telling  you  frankly,  you  cannot  have 
good  architecture  merely  by  asking  people’s  advice  on  occa- 
sion. All  good  architecture  is  the  expression  of  national  life 
and  character ; and  it  is  produced  by  a prevalent  and  eager 
national  taste,  or  desire  for  beauty.  And  I want  you  to  think 
a little  of  the  deep  significance  of  this  word  c taste ;’  for  no 
statement  of  mine  has  been  more  earnestly  or  oftener  contr  o- 


TRAFFIC. 


49 


verted  than  that  good  taste  is  essentially  a moral  quality. 
‘No,’  say  many  of  my  antagonists,  ‘taste  is  one  thing,  moral- 
ity is  another.  Tell  us  what  is  pretty ; we  shall  be  glad  to 
know  that ; but  preach  no  sermons  to  us.’ 

Permit  me,  therefore,  to  fortify  this  old  dogma  of  mine 
somewhat.  Taste  is  not  only  a part  and  an  index  of  moral- 
ity— it  is  the  only  morality.  The  first,  and  last,  and  closest 
trial  question  to  any  living  creature  is,  ‘ What  do  you  like  ?’ 
Tell  me  what  you  like,  and  I’ll  tell  you  what  you  are.  Go 
out  into  the  street,  and  ask  the  first  man  or  woman  you  meet, 
what  their  ‘ taste  ’ is,  and  if  they  answer  candidly,  you  know 
them,  body  and  soul.  ‘You,  my  friend  in  the  rags,  with  the 
unsteady  gait,  what  do  you  like  ?’  ‘ A pipe  and  a quartern 

of  gin.’  I know  you.  ‘You,  good  woman,  with  the  quick 
step  and  tidy  bonnet,  what  do  you  like  ?’  ‘ A swept  hearth 

and  a clean  tea-table,  and  my  husband  opposite  me,  and  a 
baby  at  my  breast.’  Good,  I know  you  also.  ‘ You,  little 
girl  with  the  golden  hair  and  the  soft  eyes,  what  do  you  like?’ 
‘My  canary,  and  a run  among  the- wood  hyacinths.’  ‘You, 
little  boy  with  the  dirty  hands  and  the  low  forehead,  what  do 
you  like  ?’  ‘ A shy  at  the  sparrows,  and  a game  at  pitch- 

farthing.’ Good ; we  know  them  all  now.  What  more  need 
we  ask  ? 

‘Nay,’  perhaps  you  answer:  ‘we  need  rather  to  ask  what 

these  people  and  children  do,  than  wrhat  they  like.  If  they  do 

3 


50 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


right,  it  is  no  matter  that  they  like  what  is  wrong ; and  if 
they  do  wrong,  it  is  no  matter  that  they  like  what  is  right. 
Doing  is  the  great  thing ; and  it  does  not  matter  that  the 
man  likes  drinking,  so  that  he  does  not  drink;  nor  that  the 
little  girl  likes  to  he  kind  to  her  canary,  if  she  will  not  learn 
her  lessons;  nor  that  the  little  boy  likes  throwing  stones  at 
the  sparrows,  if  he  goes  to  the  Sunday  school.’  Indeed,  for  a 
short  time,  and  in  a provisional  sense,  this  is  true.  For  if, 
resolutely,  people  do  what  is  right,  in  time  they  come  to  like 
doing  it.  But  they  only  are  in  a right  moral  state  when  they 
have  come  to  like  doing  it ; and  as  long  as  they  don’t  like  it, 
they  are  still  in  a vicious  state.  The  man  is  not  in  health  of 
body  who  is  always  thirsting  for  the  bottle  in  the  cupboard, 
though  he  bravely  bears  his  thirst ; but  the  man  who  heart- 
ily enjoys  water  in  the  morning  and  wine  in  the  evening,  each 
in  its  proper  quantity  and  time.  And  the  entire  object  of 
true  education  is  to  make  people  not  merely  do  the  right 
things,  but  enjoy  the  right  things — not  merely  industrious, 
but  to  love  industry — not  merely  learned,  but  to  love  know- 
ledge— not  merely  pure,  but  to  love  purity — not  merely  just, 
but  to  hunger  and  thirst  after  justice. 

But  you  may  answer  or  think,  ‘ Is  the  liking  for  outside 
ornaments, — for  pictures,  or  statues,  or  furniture,  or  archi- 
tecture,— a moral  quality?’  Yes,  most  surely,  if  a rightly 
set  liking.  Taste  for  any  pictures  or  statues  is  not  a moral 


TKAFFIC. 


51 


quality,  but  taste  for  good  'ones  is.  Only  here  again  we  have 
to  define  the  word  ‘ good.’  I don’t  mean  by  ‘ good,’  clever 
— or  learned — or  difficult  in  the  doing.  Take  a picture  by 
Teniers,  of  sots  quarrelling  over  their  dice : it  is  an  entirely 
clever  picture ; so  clever  that  nothing  in  its  kind  has  ever 
been  done  equal  to  it ; but  it  is  also  an  entirely  base  and  evil 
picture.  It  is  an  expression  of  delight  in  the  prolonged  con- 
templation of  a vile  thing,  and  delight  in  that  is  an  ‘ unman- 
nered,’  or  ‘immoral’  quality.  It  is  ‘bad  taste’  in  the 
profoundest  sense — it  is  the  taste  of  the  devils.  On  the 
other  hand,  a picture  of  Titian’s,  or  a Greek  statue,  or  a 
Greek  coin,  or  a Turner  landscape,  expresses  delight  in  the 
perpetual  contemplation  of  a good  and  perfect  thing.  That 
is  an  entirely  moral  quality — it  is  the  taste  of  the  angels. 
And  all  delight  in  art,  aud  all  love  of  it,  resolve  themselves 
into  simple  love  of  that  which  deserves  love.  That  deserv- 
ing is  the  quality  which  wre  call  ‘ loveliness  ’ — (we  ought  to 
have  an  opposite  word,  hateliness,  to  be  said  of  the  things 
which  deserve  to  be  hated) ; and  it  is  not  an  indifferent  nor 
optional  thing  whether  we  love  this  or  that ; but  it  is  just 
the  vital  function  of  all  our  being.  What  we  W$e  determines 
what  we  are,  and  is  the  sign  of  what  we  are ; and  to  teach 
taste  is  inevitably  to  form  character.  As  I was  thinking 
over  this,  in  walking  up  Fleet  Street  the  other  day,  my  eye 
caught  the  title  of  a book  standing  open  in  a bookseller’s 


52 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


window.  It  was — c On  the  necessity  of  the  diffusion  of  taste 
among  all  classes.’  ‘ Ah,’  I thought  to  myself,  ‘ my  classify- 
ing friend,  when  you  have  diffused  your  taste,  where  will 
your  classes  he  ? The  man  who  likes  what  you  like,  belongs 
to  the  same  class  with  you,  I think.  Inevitably  so.  You 
may  put  him  to  other  work  if  you  choose ; but,  by  the 
condition  you  have  brought  him  into,  he  will  dislike 
the  other  work  as  much  as  you  would  yourself.  You  get 
hold  of  a scavenger,  or  a costermonger,  who  enjoyed  the 
Newgate  Calendar  for  literature,  and  “Pop  goes  the 
Weasel  ” for  music.  You  think  you  can  make  him 
like  Dante  and  Beethoven?  I wish  you  joy  of  your 
lessons;  but  if  you  do,  you  have  made  a gentleman  of 
him : — he  won’t  like  to  go  back  to  his  costermonger- 
ing.’ 

And  so  completely  and  unexceptionally  is  this  so,  that,  if 
I had  time  to-night,  I could  show  you  that  a nation  cannot  be 
affected  by  any  vice,  or  weakness,  without  expressing  it,  legi- 
bly, and  for  ever,  either  in  bad  art,  or  by  want  of  art ; and 
that  there  is  no  national  virtue,  small  or  great,  which  is  not 
manifestly  expressed  in  all  the  art  which  circumstances  en- 
able the  people  possessing  that  virtue  to  produce.  Take,  for 
instance,  your  great  English  virtue  of  enduring  and  patient 
courage.  You  have  at  present  in  England  only  one  art  of 
any  consequence — that  is,  iron-working.  You  know  thoroughly 


TRAFFIC. 


53 


well  how  to  cast  and  hammer  iron.  Now,  do  you  think  in 
those  masses  of  lava  which  you  build  volcanic  cones  to  melt, 
and  which  you  forge  at  the  mouths  of  the  Infernos  you  have 
created  ; do  you  think,  on  those  iron  plates,  your  courage 
and  endurance  are  not  written  for  ever — not  merely  with  an 
iron  pen,  but  on  iron  parchment  ? And  take  also  your  great 
English  vice — European  vice — vice  of  all  the  world — vice  of  all 
other  worlds  that  roll  or  shine  in  heaven,  bearing  with  them 
yet  the  atmosphere  of  hell — the  vice  of  jealousy,  which 
brings  competition  into  your  commerce,  treachery  into  your 
councils,  and  dishonour  into  your  wars — that  vice  which  has 
rendered  for  you,  and  for  your  next  neighbouring  nation,  the 
daily  occupations  of  existence  no  longer  possible,  but  with 
the  mail  upon  your  breasts  and  the  sword  loose  in  its  sheath ; 
so  that,  at  last,  you  have  realised  for  all  the  multitudes  of  the 
two  great  peoples  who  lead  the  so-called  civilisation  of  the 
earth, — you  have  realised  for  them  all,  I say,  in  person  and 
in  policy,  what  was  once  true  only  of  the  rough  Border 
riders  of  your  Cheviot  hills — 

1 They  carved  at  the  meal 

With  gloves  of  steel, 

And  they  drank  the  red  wine  through  the  helmet  barr’d; — 
do  you  think  that  this  national  shame  and  dastardliness  of 
heart  are  not  written  as  legibly  on  every  rivet  of  your  iron 
armour  as  the  strength  of  the  right  hands  that  forged  it  ? 


54 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


Friends,  I know  not  whether  this  thing  be  the  more  ludicrous 
or  the  more  melancholy.  It  is  quite  unspeakably  both. 
Suppose,  instead  of  being  now  sent  for  by  you,  I had  been 
sent  for  by  some  private  gentleman,  living  in  a suburban 
house,  with  his  garden  separated  only  by  a fruit-wall  from  his 
next  door  neighbour’s ; and  he  had  called  me  to  consult  with 
him  on  the  furnishing  of  his  drawing-room.  I begin  looking 
about  me,  and  find  the  walls  rather  bare ; I think  such  and 
such  a paper  might  be  desirable — perhaps  a little  fresco  here 
and  there  on  the  ceiling — a damask  curtain  or  so  at  the  win- 
dows. 4 Ah,5  says  my  employer,  4 damask  curtains,  indeed ! 
That’s  all  very  fine,  but  you  know  I can’t  afford  that  kind  of 
thing  just  now!’  4 Yet  the  world  credits  you  with  a splen- 
did income  ! ’ 4 Ah,  yes,’  says  my  friend,  4 but  do  you  kno  w, 

at  present,  I am  obliged  to  spend  it  nearly  all  in  steel-traps  ? 5 
4 Steel-traps  ! for  whom  ? ’ 4 Why,  for  that  fellow  on  the 

other  side  the  wall,  you  know:  we’re  very  good  friends, 
capital  friends;  but  we  are  obliged  to  keep  our  traps  set 
on  both  sides  of  the  wall;  we  could  not  possibly  keep  on 
friendly  terms  without  them,  and  our  spring  guns.  The 
worst  of  it  is,  we  are  both  clever  fellows  enough ; and  there’s 
never  a day  passes  that  we  don’t  find  out  a new  trap,  or  a 
new  gun-barrel,  or  something;  we  spend  about  fifteen  mil- 
lions a year  each  in  our  traps,  take  it  all  together ; and  I 
don’t  see  how  we  ’re  to  do  with  less.’  A highly  comic  state 


TRAFFIC. 


55 


of  life  for  two  private  gentlemen  ! but  for  two  nations,  it 
seems  to  me,  not  wholly  comic  ? Bedlam  would  be  comic, 
perhaps,  if  there  were  only  one  madman  in  it;  and  your 
Christmas  pantomime  is  comic,  when  there  is  only  one  clown 
in  it ; but  when  the  whole  world  turns  clown,  and  paints 
itself  red  with  its  own  heart’s  blood  instead  of  vermilion,  it 
is  something  else  than  comic,  I think. 

Mind,  I know  a great  deal  of  this  is  play,  and  willingly 
allow  for  that.  You  don’t  know  what  to  do  with  yourselves 
for  a sensation : fox-hunting  and  cricketing  will  not  carry  you 
through  the  whole  of  this  unendurably  long  mortal  life : you 
liked  pop-guns  when  you  were  schoolboys,  and  rides  and 
Armstrongs  are  only  the  same  things  better  made  : but  then 
the  worst  of  it  is,  that  what  was  play  to  you  when  boys,  was 
not  play  to  the  sparrows ; and  what  is  play  to  you  now,  is 
not  play  to  the  small  birds  of  State  neither;  and  for  the 
black  eagles,  you  are  somewhat  shy  of  taking  shots  at  them, 
if  I mistake  not. 

I must  get  back  to  the  matter  in  hand,  however.  Believe 
me,  without  farther  instance,  I could  show  you,  in  all  time, 
that  every  nation’s  vice,  or  virtue,  was  written  in  its  art : the 
soldiership  of  early  Greece  * the  sensuality  of  late  Italy ; the 
visionary  religion  of  Tuscany ; the  splendid  human  energy 
and  beauty  of  Yenice.  I have  no  time  to  do  this  to-night  (I 
have  done  it  elsewhere  before  now)  ; but  I proceed 


56 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


to  apply  the  principle  to  ourselves  in  a more  searching 
manner. 

I notice  that  among  all  the  new  buildings  that  cover  your 
once  wild  hills,  churches  and  schools  are  mixed  in  due,  that 
is  to  say,  in  large  proportion,  with  your  mills  and  mansions : 
and  I notice  also  that  the  churches  and  schools  are  almost 
always  Gothic,  and  the  mansions  and  mills  are  never  Gothic. 
Will  you  allow  me  to  ask  precisely  the  meaning  of  this  ? 
For,  remember,  it  is  peculiarly  a modern  phenomenon. 
When  Gothic  was  invented,  houses  were  Gothic  as  well  as 
churches ; and  when  the  Italian  style  superseded  the  Gothic, 
churches  were  Italian  as  well  as  houses.  If  there  is  a 
Gothic  spire  to  the  cathedral  of  Antwerp,  there  is  a Gothic 
belfry  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville  at  Brussels ; if  Inigo  Jones 
builds  an  Italian  Whitehall,  Sir  Christopher  Wren  builds  an 
Italian  St.  Paul’s.  But  now  you  live  under  one  school  of 
architecture,  and  worship  under  another.  What  do  you 
mean  by  doing  this?  Am  I to  understand  that  you  are 
thinking  of  changing  your  architecture  back  to  Gothic ; and 
that  you  treat  your  churches  experimentally,  because  it  does 
not  matter  what  mistakes  you  make  in  a church  ? Or  am  I 
to  understand  that  you  consider  Gothic  a pre-eminently 
sacred  and  beautiful  mode  of  building,  which  you  think,  like 
the  fine  frankincense,  should  be  mixed  for  the  tabernacle 
only,  and  reserved  for  your  religious  services?  For  if  this  be 


TEAFFIC. 


57 


the  feeling,  though  it  may  seem  -at  first  as  if  it  were  graceful 
and  reverent,  you  will  find  that,  at  the  root  of  the  matter,  it 
signifies  neither  more  nor  less  than  that  you  have  separated 
your  religion  from  your  life. 

For  consider  what  a wide  significance  this  fact  has;  and 
remember  that  it  is  not  you  only,  but  all  the  people  of  Eng- 
land, who  are  behaving  thus  just  now. 

You  have  all  got  into  the  habit  of  calling  the  church  ‘the 


house  of  God.’  I have  seen,  over  the  doors  of  many  church- 
es, the  legend  actually  carved,  4 This  is  the  house  of  God, 
and  this  is  the  gate  of  heaven.’  Now,  note  where  that  legend 
comes  from,  and  of  what  place  it  was  first  spoken.  A boy 
leaves  his  father’s  house  to  go  on  a long  journey  on  foot,  to 
visit  his  uncle;  he  has  to  cross  a wild  hill-desert;  just  as  if 
one  of  your  own  boys  had  to  cross  the  wolds  of  Westmore- 
land, to  visit  an  uncle  at  Carlisle.  The  second  or  third  day 
your  boy  finds  himself  somewhere  between  Hawes  and 
Brough,  in  the  midst  of  the  moors,  at  sunset.  It  is  stony 
ground,  and  boggy ; he  cannot  go  one  foot  farther  that 
night.  Down  he  lies,  to  sleep,  on  Wharnside,  where  best  he 
may,  gathering  a few  of  the  stones  together  to  put  under  his 
head; — so  wild  the  place  is,  he  cannot  get  anything  but 
stones.  And  there,  lying  under  the  broad  night,  he  has  a 
dream ; and  he  sees  a ladder  set  up  on  the  earth,  and  the  top 
of  it  reaches  to  heaven,  and  the  angels  of  God  are  ascending 


58 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIYE. 


and  descending  upon  it.  And  when  he  wakes  out  of  his 
sleep,  he  says,  ‘ How  dreadful  is  this  place ; surely,  this  is 
none  other  than  the  house  of  God,  and  this  is  the  gate  of 
heaven.’  This  flace,  observe;  not  this  church;  not  this 
city ; not  this  stone,  even,  which  he  puts  up  for  a memorial — 
the  piece  of  flint  on  which  his  head  has  lain.  But  this 
place ; this  windy  slope  of  Wharnside ; this  moorland  hol- 
low, torrent-bitten,  snow-blighted ; this  any  place  where 
God  lets  down  the  ladder.  And  how  are  you  to  know  where 
that  will  be  ? or  how  are  you  to  determine  where  it  may  be, 
but  by  being  ready  for  it  always  ? Do  you  know  where  the 
lightning  is  to  fall  next?  You  do  know  that,  partly;  you 
can  guide  the  lightning ; but  you  cannot  guide  the  going 
forth  of  the  Spirit,  which  is  that  lightning  when  it  shines 
from  the  east  to  the  west. 

But  the  perpetual  and  insolent  warping  of  that  strong 
verse  to  serve  a merely  ecclesiastical  purpose,  is  only  one  of 
the  thousand  instances  in  which  we  sink  back  into  gross 
Judaism.  We  call  our  churches  ‘ temples.5  Now,  you 
know,  or  ought  to  know,  they  are  not  temples.  They  have 
never  had,  never  can  have,  anything  whatever  to  do  with 
temples.  They  are  ‘synagogues’ — ‘gathering  places’ — 
where  you  gather  yourselves  together  as  an  assembly ; and 
by  not  calling  them  so,  you  again  miss  the  force  of  another 
mighty  text — ‘ Thou,  when  thou  prayest,  shalt  not  be  as  the 


TRAFFIC. 


59 


hypocrites  are ; for  they  love  to  pray  standing  in  the 
churches  ’ [we  should  translate  it],  4 that  they  may  be  seen  of' 
men.  But  thou,  when  thou  prayest,  enter  into  thy  closet, 
and  when  thou  hast  shut  thy  door,  pray  to  thy  Father,’ — 
which  is,  not  in  chancel  nor  in  aisle,  but  4 in  secret.’ 

Now,  you  feel,  as  I say  this  to  you — I know  you  feel — as 
if  I were  trying,  to  take  away  the  honour  of  your  churches. 
Not  so;  I am  trying  to  prove  to  you  the  honour  of  your 
houses  and  your  hills;  I am  trying  to  show  you — not  that 
the  Church  is  not  sacred — but  that  the  whole  Earth  is.  I 
would  have  you  feel,  what  careless,  what  constant,  what  infec- 
tious sin  there  is  in  all  modes  of  thought,  whereby,  in  calling 
your  churches  only  4 holy,’  you  call  your  hearths  and  homes 
profane ; and  have  separated  yourselves  from  the  heathen  by 
casting  all  your  household  gods  to  the  ground,  instead  of 
recognising,  in  the  place  of  their  many  and  feeble  Lares,  the 
presence  of  your  One  and  Mighty  Lord  and  Lar. 

4 But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  our  Exchange  ? ’ you  ask 
me,  impatiently.  My  dear  friends,  it  has  just  everything  to 
do  with  it ; on  these  inner  and  great  questions  depend  all  the 
outer  and  little  ones;  and  if  you  have  asked  me  down  here 
to  speak  to  you,  because  you  had  before  been  interested  in 
anything  I have  written,  you  must  know  that  all  I have  yet 
said  about  architecture  was  to  show  this.  The  book  I called 
4 The  Seven  Lamps’  was  to  show  that  certain  right  states  of 


60 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


temper  and  moral  feeling  were  the  magic  powers  by  which 
all  good  architecture,  without  exception,  had  been  produced. 

4 The  Stones  of  Venice’  had,  from  beginning  to  end,  no  other 
aim  than  to  show  that  the  Gothic  architecture  of  Venice  had 
arisen  out  of,  and  indicated  in  all  its  features,  a state  of  pure 
national  faith,  and  of  domestic  virtue;  and  that  its  Renais- 
sance architecture  had  arisen  out  of,  and  in  all  its  features  in- 
dicated, a state  of  concealed  national  infidelity,  and  of  domes- 
tic corruption.  And  now,  you  ask  me  what  style  is  best  to 
build  in ; and  how  can  I answer,  knowing  the  meaning  of  the 
two  styles,  but  by  another  question — do  you  mean  to  build 
as  Christians  or  as  Infidels  ? And  still  more — do  you  mean 
to  build  as  honest  Christians  or  as  honest  Infidels?  as  tho- 
roughly and  confessedly  either  one  or  the  other  ? You  don’t 
like  to  be  asked  such  rude  questions.  I cannot  help  it ; they 
are  of  much  more  importance  than  this  Exchange  business ; 
and  if  they  can  be  at  once  answered,  the  Exchange  business 
settles  itself  in  a moment.  But,  before  I press  them  farther,  I 
must  ask  leave  to  explain  one  point  clearly.  In  all  my  past 
wmrk,  my  endeavour  has  been  to  show  that  good  architecture 
is  essentially  religious — the  production  of  a faithful  and  vir- 
tuous, not  of  an  infidel  and  corrupted  people.  But  in  the 
course  of  doing  this,  I have  had  also  to  show  that  good  archi- 
tecture is  not  ecclesiastical . People  are  so  apt  to  look  upon 
religion  as  the  business  of  the  clergy,  not  their  own,  that  the 


TRAFFIC. 


61 


moment  they  hear  of  anything  depending  on  c religion,’  they 
think  it  must  also  have  depended  on  the  priesthood  ; and  I 
have  had  to  take  what  place  was  to  be  occupied  between 
these  two  errors,  and  fight  both,  often  with  seeming  contra- 
diction. Good  architecture  is  the  work  of  good  and  believ- 
ing men ; therefore,  you  say,  at  least  some  people  say,  c Good 
architecture  must  essentially  have  been  the  work  of  the  cler- 
gy, not  of  the  laity.’  No — a thousand  times  no;  good  archi- 
tecture has  always  been  the  work  of  the  commonalty,  not  of 
the  clergy.  What,  you  say,  those  glorious  cathedrals — the 
pride  of  Europe — did  their  builders  not  form  Gothic  archi- 
tecture? No;  they  corrupted  Gothic  architecture.  Gothic 
was  formed  in  the  baron’s  castle,  and  the  burgher’s  street. 
It  was  formed  by  the  thoughts,  and  hands,  and  powers  of 
free  citizens  and  soldier  kings.  By  the  monk  it  was  used  as 
an  instrument  for  the  aid  of  his  superstition ; when  that  su- 
perstition became  a beautiful  madness,  and  the  best  hearts  of 
Europe  vainly  dreamed  and  pined  in  the  cloister,  and  vainly 
raged  and  perished  in  the  crusade — through  that  fury  of  per- 
verted faith  and  wasted  war,  the  Gothic  rose  also  to  its  love- 
liest, most  fantastic,  and,  finally,  most  foolish  dreams ; and, 
in  those  dreams,  was  lost. 

I hope,  now,  that  there  is  no  risk  of  your  misunderstanding 
me  when  I come  to  the  gist  of  what  I want  to  say  to-night — 
when  I repeat,  that  every  great  national  architecture  has  been 


62 


THE  CEOWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


the  result  and  exponent  of  a great  national  religion.  You 
can’t  have  bits  of  it  here,  bits  there — you  must  have  it  every- 
where, or  nowhere.  It  is  not  the  monopoly  of  a clerical  com- 
pany— it  is  not  the  exponent  of  a theological  dogma — it  is  not 
tbe  hieroglyphic  writing  of  an  initiated  priesthood ; it  is  the 
manly  language  of  a people  inspired  by  resolute  and  common 
purpose,  and  rendering  resolute  and  common  fidelity  to  the 
legible  laws  of  an  undoubted  God. 

Now,  there  have  as  yet  been  three  distinct  schools  of  Eu- 
ropean architecture.  I say,  European,  because  Asiatic  and 
African  architectures  belong  so  entirely  to  other  races  and 
climates,  that  there  is  no  question  of  thefri  here;  only,  in  pass- 
ing, I will  simply  assure  you  that  whatever  is  good  or  great 
in  Egypt,  and  Syria,  and  India,  is  just  good  or  great  for  the 
same  reasons  as  the  buildings  on  our  side  of  the  Bosphorus. 
We  Europeans,  then,  have  had  three  great  religions:  the 
Greek,  which  was  the  worship  of  the  God  of  Wisdom  and 
Power;  the  Mediaeval,  which  was  the  Worship  of  the  God 
of  Judgment  and  Consolation  ; the  Renaissance,  which  was 
the  worship  of  the  God  of  Pride  and  Beauty ; these  three  we 
have  had — they  are  past, — and  now,  at  last,  we  English  have 
got  a fourth  religion,  and  a God  of  our  own,  about  which  I 
want  to  ask  you.  But  I must  explain  these  three  old  ones 
first. 

I repeat,  first,  the  Greeks  essentially  worshipped  the  God 


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63 


of  Wisdom ; so  that  whatever  contended  against  their  reli- 
gion,— to  the  Jews  a stumbling  block, — was,  to  the  Greeks — 
Foolishness . 

The  first  Greek  idea  of  Deity  was  that  expressed  in  the 
word,  of  which  we  keep  the  remnant  in  our  words  c Zb*-urnal  ’ 
and  ‘Di-\ ine’ — the  god  of  Day,  Jupiter  the  revealer.  Athena 
is  his  daughter,  but  especially  daughter  of  the  Intellect, 
springing  armed  from  the  head.  We  are  only  with  the  help 
of  recent  investigation  beginning  to  penetrate  the  depth  of 
meaning  couched  under  the  Athenaic  symbols:  but  I may 
note  rapidly,  that  her  aegis,  the  mantle  with  the  serpent 
fringes,  in  which  she  often,  in  the  best  statues,  is  represented 
as  folding  up  her  left  hand  for  better  guard,  and  the  Gorgon 
on  her  shield,  are  both  representative  mainly  of  the  chilling 
horror  and  sadness  (turning  men  to  stone,  as  it  were,)  of  the 
outmost  and  superficial  spheres  of  knowledge — that  know- 
ledge which  separates,  in  bitterness,  hardness,  and  sorrow, 
the  heart  of  the  full-grown  man  from  the  heart  of  the  child. 
For  out  of  imperfect  knowledge  spring  terror,  dissension, 
danger,  and  disdain ; but  from  perfect  knowledge,  given  by 
the  full-revealed  Athena,  strength  and  peace,  in  sign  of  which 
she  is  crowned  with  the  olive  spray,  and  bears  the  resistless 
spear. 

This,  then,  was  the  Greek  conception  of  purest  Deity, 
and  every  habit  of  life,  and  every  form  of  his  art  developed 


64 


THE  GROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


themselves  from  the  seeking  this  bright,  serene,  resistless 
wisdom ; and  setting  himself,  as  a man,  to  do  things  ever- 
more rightly  and  strongly ; * not  with  any  ardent  affection 
or  ultimate  hope;  but  with  a resolute  and  continent  energy 
of  will,  as  knowing  that  for  failure  there  was  no  consolation, 
and  for  sin  there  was  no  remission.  And  the  Greek  architec- 
ture rose  unerring,  bright,  clearly  defined,  and  self-contained. 

Next  followed  in  Europe  the  great  Christian  faith,  which 
was  essentially  the  religion  of  Comfort.  Its  great  doctrine 
is  the  remission  of  sins ; for  which  cause  it  happens,  too 
often,  in  certain  phases  of  Christianity,  that  sin  and  sickness 
themselves  are  partly  glorified,  as  if,  the  more  you  had  to  be 
healed  of,  the  more  divine  was  the  healing.  The  practical 
result  of  this  doctrine,  in  art,  is  a continual  contemplation 
of  sin  and  disease,  and  of  imaginary  states  of  purification 
from  them ; thus  we  have  an  architecture  conceived  in  a 

* It  is  an  error  to  suppose  that  the  G-reek  worship,  or  seeking,  was 
chiefly  of  Beauty.  It  was  essentially  of  Rightness  and  Strength,  founded 
on  Forethought:  the  principal  character  of  G-reek  art  is  not  Beauty,  but 
Design:  and  the  Dorian  Apollo-worship  and  Athenian  Virgin- worship 
are  both  expressions  of  adoration  of  divine  Wisdom  and  Purity.  Next  to 
these  great  deities  rank,  in  power  over  the  national  mind,  Dionysus  and 
Ceres,  the  givers  of  human  strength  and  life : then,  for  heroic  example, 
Hercules.  There  is  no  Venus-worship  among  the  Greeks  in  the  great 
times : and  the  Muses  are  essentially  teachers  of  Truth,  and  of  its  har- 
monies. 


TRAFFIC. 


65 


mingled  sentiment  of  melancholy  and  aspiration,  partly 
severe,  partly  luxuriant,  which  will  bend  itself  to  every  one 
of  our  needs,  and  every  one  of  our  fancies,  and  be  strong  or 
weak  with  us,  as  we  are  strong  or  weak  ourselves.  It  is,  of 
all  architecture,  the  basest,  when  base  people  build  it — of 
all,  the  noblest,  when  built  by  the  noble. 

And  now  note  that  both  these  religions — Greek  and  Medi- 
aeval— perished  by  falsehood  in  their  own  main  purpose. 
The  Greek  religion  of  Wisdom  perished  in  a false  philosophy 
— 4 Oppositions  of  science,  falsely  so  called.’  The  Mediaeval 
religion  of  Consolation  perished  in  false  comfort;  in  remis- 
sion of  sins  given  lyingly.  It  was  the  selling  of  absolution 
that  ended  the  Mediaeval  faith  ; and  I can  tell  you  more,  it  is 
the  selling  of  absolution  which,  to  the  end  of  time,  will  mark 
false  Christianity.  Pure  Christianity  gives  her  remission  of 
sins  only  by  ending  them ; but  false  Christianity  gets  her 
remission  of  sins  by  compounding  for  them.  And  there  are 
many  wTays  of  compounding  for  them.  We  English  have 
beautiful  little  quiet  ways  of  buying  absolution,  whether  in  low 
Church  or  high,  far  more  cunning  than  any  of  TetzeFs  trading. 

Then,  thirdly,  there  followed  the  religion  of  Pleasure,  in 
which  all  Europe  gave  itself  to  luxury,  ending  in  death. 
First,  hols  masques  in  every  saloon,  and  then  guillotines  in 
every  square.  And  all  these  three  worships  issue  in  vast 
temple  building.  Your  Greek  worshipped  Wisdom,  and 


66 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


built  you  the  Parthenon — the  Virgin’s  temple.  The  Mediae- 
val worshipped  Consolation,  and  built  you  Virgin  temples 
also — but  to  our  Lady  of  Salvation.  Then  the  Revivalist 
worshipped  beauty,  of  a sort,  and  built  you  Versailles,  and 
the  Vatican.  Now,  lastly,  will  you  tell  me  what  we  worship, 
and  what  we  build? 

You  know  we  are  speaking  always  of  the  real,  active,  con- 
tinual, national  worship ; that  by  which  men  act  while  they 
live;  not  that  which  they  talk  of  when  they  die.  Now,  we 
have,  indeed,  a nominal  religion,  to  which  we  pay  tithes  of 
property  and  sevenths  of  time  ; but  we  have  also  a practical 
and  earnest  religion,  to  which  we  devote  nine-tenths  of  our 
property  and  sixth-sevenths  of  our  time.  And  we  dispute  a 
great  deal  about  the  nominal  religion  ; but  we  are  all  unani- 
mous about  this  practical  one,  of  which  I think  you  will  admit 
that  the  ruling  goddess  may  be  best  generally  described  as 
the  4 Goddess  of  Getting-on,’  or  4 Britannia  of  the  Market.’ 
The  Athenians  had  an  4 Athena  Agoraia,5  or  Minerva  of  the 
Market;  but  she  wTas  a subordinate  type  of  their  goddess, 
while  our  Britannia  Agoraia  is  the  principal  type  of  ours. 
And  all  your  great  architectural  works,  are,  of  course,  built 
to  her.  It  is  long  since  you  built  a great  cathedral  ; and  how 
you  would  laugh  at  me,  if  I proposed  building  a cathedral  on 
the  top  of  one  of  these  hills  of  yours,  taking  it  for  an  Acro- 
polis ! But  your  railroad  mounds,  prolonged  masses  of  Aero- 


TRAFFIC. 


G7 


polis ; your  railroad  stations,  vaster  than  the  Parthenon,  and 
innumerable;  your  chimneys,  how  much  more  mighty  and 
costly  than  cathedral  spires ! your  harbour-piers ; your 
warehouses  ; your  exchanges ! — all  these  are  built  to  your 
great  Goddess  of  4 Getting-on ; 5 and  she  has  formed,  and 
will  continue  to  form,  your  architecture,  as  long  as  you  wor- 
ship her ; and  it  is  quite  vain  to  ask  me  to  tell  you  how  to 
build  to  her y you  know  far  better  than  I. 

There  might  indeed,  on  some  theories,  be  a conceivably 
good  architecture  for  Exchanges — that  is  to  say  if  there  were 
any  heroism  in  the  fact  or  deed  of  exchange,  which  might  be 
typically  carved  on  the  outside  of  your  building.  For,  you 
know,  all  beautiful  architecture  must  be  adorned  with  sculp- 
ture or  painting;  and  for  sculpture  or  painting,  you  must 
have  a subject.  And  hitherto  it  has  been  a received  opinion 
among  the  nations  of  the  world  that  the  only  right  subjects 
for  either,  were  heroisms  of  some  sort.  Even  on  his  pots  and 
his  flagons,  the  Greek  put  a Hercules  slaying  lions,  or  an 
Apollo  slaying  serpents,  or  Bacchus  slaying  melancholy 
giants,  and  earth-born  despondencies.  On  his  temples,  the 
Greek  put  contests  of  great  warriors  in  founding  states,  or  of 
gods  with  evil  spirits.  On  his  houses  and  temples  alike,  the 
Christian  put  carvings  of  angels  conquering  devils ; or  of 
hero-martyrs  exchanging  this  world  for  another;  subject 
inappropriate,  I think,  to  our  manner  of  exchange  here.  And 


68 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


the  Master  of  Christians  not  only  left  his  followers  without 
any  orders  as  to  the  sculpture  of  affairs  of  exchange  on  the 
outside  of  buildings,  but  gave  some  strong  evidence  of  his 
dislike  of  affairs  of  exchange  within  them.  And  yet  there 
might  surely  be  a heroism  in  such  affairs ; and  all  commerce 
become  a kind  of  selling  of  doves,  not  impious.  The  wonder 
has  always  been  great  to  me,  that  heroism  has  never  been 
supposed  to  be  in  anywise  consistent  with  the  practice  of 
supplying  people  with  food,  or  clothes ; but  rather  with  that 
of  quartering  oneself  upon  them  for  food,  and  stripping  them 
of  their  clothes.  Spoiling  of  armour  is  an  heroic  deed  in  all 
ages ; but  the  selling  of  clothes,  old,  or  new,  has  never  taken 
any  colour  of  magnanimity.  Yet  one  does  not  see  why  feed- 
ing the  hungry  and  clothing  the  naked  should  ever  become 
base  businesses,  even  when  engaged  in  on  a large  scale.  If 
one  could  contrive  to  attach  the  notion  of  conquest  to  them 
anyhow  ? so  that,  supposing  there  were  anywhere  an  obsti- 
nate race,  who  refused  to  be  comforted,  one  might  take  some 
pride  in  giving  them  compulsory  comfort;  and  as  it  were, 
‘occupying  a country’  with  one’s  gifts,  instead  of  one’s 
armies  ? If  one  could  only  consider  it  as  much  a victory  to 
get  a barren  field  sown,  as  to  get  an  eared  field  stripped ; and 
contend  who  should  build  villages,  instead  of  who  should 
‘ carry  ’ them.  Are  not  all  forms  of  heroism,  conceivable  in 
doing  these  serviceable  deeds  ? You  doubt  who  is  strongest  ? 


TRAFFIC. 


69 


It  might  be  ascertained  by  push  of  spade,  as  well  as  push  of 
sword.  Who  is  wisest?  There  are  witty  things  to  be 
thought  of  in  planning  other  business  than  campaigns.  Who 
is  bravest?  There  are  always  the  elements  to  fight  with, 
stronger  than  men;  and  nearly  as  merciless.  The  only 
absolutely  and  unapproachably  heroic  element  in  the  soldier’s 
work  seems  to  be — that  he  is  paid  little  for  it — and  regularly: 
while  you  traffickers,  and  exchangers,  and  others  occupied  in 
presumably  benevolent  business,  like  to  be  paid  much  for  it — 
and  by  chance.  I never  can  make  out  how  it  is  that  a 
knight-errant  does  not  expect  to  be  paid  for  his  trouble,  but 
a pedlar-errant  always  does ; — that  people  are  willing  to  take 
hard  knocks  for  nothing,  but  never  to  sell  ribands  cheap ; — 
that  they  are  ready  to  go  on  fervent  crusades  to  recover  the 
tomb  of  a buried  God,  never  on  any  travels  to  fulfil  the 
orders  of  a living  God ; — that  they  will  go  anywhere  barefoot 
to  preach  their  faith,  but  must  be  well  bribed  to  practise  it, 
and  are  perfectly  ready  to  give  the  Gospel  gratis,  but  never 
the  loaves  and  fishes.  If  you  chose  to  take  the  matter  up  on 
any  such  soldierly  principle,  to  do  your  commerce,  and  your 
feeding  of  nations,  for  fixed  salaries  ; and  to  be  as  particular 
about  giving  people  the  best  food,  and  the  best  cloth,  as 
soldiers  are  about  giving  them  the  best  gunpowder,  I could 
carve  something  for  you  on  your  exchange  worth  looking  at. 
But  I can  only  at  present  suggest  decorating  its  frieze  with 


70 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


pendant  purses ; and  making  its  pillars  broad  at  the  base,  for 
the  sticking  of  bills.  And  in  the  innermost  chambers  of  it 
there  might  be  a statue  of  Britannia  of  the  Market,  who  may 
have,  perhaps  advisably,  a partridge  for  her  crest,  typical  at 
once  of  her  courage  in  fighting  for  noble  ideas ; and  of  her 
interest  in  game ; and  round  its  neck  the  inscription  in  golden 
letters,  c Perdix  fovit  quae  non  peperit.’  * Then,  for  her 
spear,  she  might  have  a weaver’s  beam;  and  on  her  shield, 
instead  of  her  Cross,  the  Milanese  boar,  semi-fleeced,  with 
the  town  of  Gennesaret  proper,  in  the  field  and  the  legend 
c In  the  best  market,’  and  her  corslet,  of  leather,  folded  over 
her  heart  in  the  shape  of  a purse,  with  thirty  slits  in  it  for  a 
piece  of  money  to  go  in  at,  on  each  day  of  the  month.  And 
I doubt  not  but  that  people  would  come  to  see  your  exchange, 
and  its  goddess,  with  applause. 

Nevertheless,  I want  to  point  out  to  you  certain  strange 
characters  in  this  goddess  of  yours.  She  differs  from  the 
great  Greek  and  Mediaeval  deities  essentially  in  two  things — 
first,  as  to  the  continuance  of  her  presumed  power ; secondly, 
as  to  the  extent  of  it. 

1st,  as  to  the  Continuance. 

* Jerem.  xvii.  11  (best  in  Septuagint  and  Vulgate).  ‘As  the  partridge, 
fostering  what  she  brought  not  forth,  so  he  that  getteth  riches,  not  by 
right,  shall  leave  them  in  the  midst  of  his  days,  and  at  his  end  shall  be  a 
fooL* 


TRAFFIC. 


71 


The  Greek  Goddess  of  Wisdom  gave  continual  increase  of 
wisdom,  as  the  Christian  Spirit  of  Comfort  (or  Comforter) 
continual  increase  of  comfort.  There  was  no  question,  with 
these,  of  any  limit  or  cessation  of  function.  But  with  your 
Agora  Goddess,  that  is  just  the  most  important  question. 
Getting  on — but  where  to?  Gathering  together — but  how 
much  ? Do  you  mean  to  gather  always — never  to  spend  ? 
If  so,  I wish  you  joy  of  your  goddess,  for  I am  just  as  well 
off  as  you,  without  the  trouble  of  worshipping  her  at  all. 
But  if  you  do  not  spend,  somebody  else  will — somebody  else 
must.  And  it  is  because  of  this  (among  many  other  such 
errors)  that  I have  fearlessly  declared  your  so-called  science 
of  Political  Economy  to  be  no  science ; because,  namely,  it 
has  omitted  the  study  of  exactly  the  most  important  branch 
of  the  business — the  study  of  spending . For  spend  you 
must,  and  as  much  as  you  make,  ultimately.  You  gather 
corn: — will  you  bury  England  under  a heap  of  grain;  or 
will  you,  when  you  have  gathered,  finally  eat?  You  gather 
gold : — will  you  make  your  house-roofs  of  it,  or  pave  your 
streets  with  it  ? That  is  still  one  way  of  spending  it.  But 
if  you  keep  it,  that  you  may  get  more,  I’ll  give  you  more ; 
I’ll  give  you  all  the  gold  you  want — all  you  can  imagine — 
if  you  can  tell  me  what  you’ll  do  with  it.  You  shall  have 
thousands  of  gold  pieces  ; — thousands  of  thousands — millions 
— mountains,  of  gold : where  will  you  keep  them  ? Will 


72  THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 

you  put  an  Olympus  of  silver  upon  a golden  Pelion — make 
Ossa  like  a wart  ? Do  you  think  the  rain  and  dew  would 
then  come  down  to  you,  in  the  streams  from  such  mountains, 
more  blessedly  than  they  will  down  the  mountains  which 
God  has  made  for  you,  of  moss  and  whinstone  ? But  it  is 
not  gold  that  you  want  to  gather ! What  is  it  ? green- 
backs ? No  ; not  those  neither.  What  is  it  then — is  it 
ciphers  after  a capital  I ? Cannot  you  practise  writing 
ciphers,  and  write  as  many  as  you  want?  Write  ciphers  for 
an  hour  every  morning,  in  a big  book,  and  say  every  even- 
ing, I am  worth  all  those  noughts  more  than  I was  yester- 
day. Won’t  that  do?  Well,  what  in  the  name  of  Plutus  is 
it  you  want?  Not  gold,  not  greenbacks,  not  ciphers  after  a 
capital  I?  You  will  have  to  answer,  after  all,  ‘No;  we 
want,  somehow  or  other,  money’s  worth?  Well,  what  is 
that  ? Let  your  Goddess  of  Getting-on  discover  it,  and  let 
her  learn  to  stay  therein. 

II,  But  there  is  yet  another  question  to  be  asked  respect- 
ing this  Goddess  of  Getting-on.  The  first  was  of  the  con- 
tinuance of  her  power ; the  second  is  of  its  extent. 

Pallas  and  the  Madonna  were  supposed  to  be  all  the 
world’s  Pallas,  and  all  the  world’s  Madonna.  They  could 
teach  all  men,  and  they  could  comfort  all  men.  But,  look 
strictly  into  the  nature  of  the  power  of  your  Goddess  of 
Getting-on ; and  you  will  find  she  is  the  Goddess — not  of 


TRAFFIC. 


73 


everybody’s  getting  on — but  only  of  somebody’s  getting  on. 
This  is  a vital,  or  rather  deathful,  distinction.  Examine  it  in 
your  own  ideal  of  the  state  of  national  life  which  this  God- 
dess is  to  evoke  and  maintain.  I asked  you  what  it  was, 
when  I was  last  here ; * — you  have  never  told  me.  Now, 
shall  I try  to  tell  you  ? 

Your  ideal  of  human  life  then  is,  I think,  that  it  should  be 
passed  in  a pleasant  undulating  world,  with  iron  and  coal 
everywhere  underneath  it.  On  each  pleasant  bank  of  this 
world  is  to  be  a beautiful  mansion,  with  two  wings ; and 
stables,  and  coach-houses ; a moderately  sized  park ; a large 
garden  and  hot-houses ; and  pleasant  carriage  drives  through 
the  shrubberies.  In  this  mansion  are  to  live  the  favoured 
votaries  of  the  Goddess ; the  English  gentleman,  with  his 
gracious  wife,  and  his  beautiful  family ; always  able  to  have 
the  boudoir  and  the  jewels  for  the  wife,  and  the  beautiful 
ball  dresses  for  the  daughters,  and  hunters  for  the  sons,  and 
a shooting  in  the  Highlands  for  himself.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  bank,  is  to  be  the  mill ; not  less  than  a quarter  of  a mile 
long,  with  a steam  engine  at  each  end,  and  two  in  the  mid- 
dle, and  a chimney  three  hundred  feet  high.  In  this  mill  are 
to  be  in  constant  employment  from  eight  hundred  to  a thou- 
sand workers,  who  never  drink,  never  strike,  always  go  to 


* Two  Paths,  p.  98 
4 


74 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


church  on  Sunday,  and  always  express  themselves  in  respect- 
ful language. 

Is  not  that,  broadly,  and  in  the  main  features,  the  kind  of 
filing  you  propose  to  yourselves  ? It  is  very  pretty  indeed, 
seen  from  above ; not  at  all  so  pretty,  seen  from  below. 
For,  observe,  while  to  one  family  this , deity  is  indeed  the 
Goddess  of  Getting  on,  to  a thousand  families  she  is  the 
Goddess  of  not  Getting  on.  ‘Nay,’  you  say,  ‘they  have  all 
their  chance.’  Yes,  so  has  every  one  in  a lottery,  but  there 
must  always  be  the  same  number  of  blanks.  c Ah ! but  in 
a lottery  it  is  not  skill  and  intelligence  which  take  the  lead, 
but  blind  chance.’  What  then ! do  you  think  the  old 
practice,  that  ‘they  should  take  who  have  the  power,  and 
they  should  keep  who  can,’  is  less  iniquitous,  when  the 
power  has  become  power  of  brains  instead  of  fist?  and 
that,  though  we  may  not  take  advantage  of  a child’s  or  a 
woman’s  weakness,  we  may  of  a man’s  foolishness?  ‘Nay, 
but  finally,  work  must  be  done,  and  some  one  must  be  at  the 
top,  some  one  at  the  bottom.’  Granted,  my  friends.  Work 
must  always  be,  and  captains  of  work  must  always  be ; and 
if  you  in  the  least  remember  the  tone  of  any  of  my  writings, 
you  must  know  that  they  are  thought  unfit  for  this  age, 
because  they  are  always  insisting  on  need  of  government, 
and  speaking  with  scorn  of  liberty.  But  I beg  you  to 
observe  that  there  is  a wide  difference  between  being 


TRAFFIC. 


75 


captains  or  governors  of  work,  and  taking  the  profits  of  it. 
It  does  not  follow,  because  you  are  general  of  an  army,  that 
you  are  to  take  all  the  treasure,  or  land,  it  wins  (if  it  fight 
for  treasure  or  land) ; neither,  because  you  are  king  of  a 
nation,  that  you  are  to  consume  all  the  profits  of  the  nation’s 
work.  Real  kings,  on  the  contrary,  are  known  invariably 
by  their  doing  quite  the  reverse  of  this, — by  their  taking 
the  least  possible  quantity  of  the  nation’s  work  for  themselves. 
There  is  no  test  of  real  kinghood  so  infallible  as  that.  Does 
the  crowned  creature  live  simply,  bravely,  unostentatiously  ? 
probably  he  is  a King.  Does  he  cover  his  body  with  jewels, 
and  his  table  with  delicates  ? in  all  probability  he  is  not  a 
King.  It  is  possible  he  may  be,  as  Solomon  was  ; but  that  is 
when  the  nation  shares  his  splendour  with  him.  Solomon 
made  gold,  not  only  to  be  in  his  own  palace  as  stones,  but  to 
be  in  Jerusalem  as  stones.  But  even  so,  for  the  most  part, 
these  splendid  kinghoods  expire  in  ruin,  and  only  the  true 
kinghoods  live,  which  are  of  royal  labourers  governing 
loyal  labourers ; who,  both  leading  rough  lives,  establish 
the  true  dynasties.  Conclusively  you  will  find  that  because 
you  are  king  of  a nation,  it  does  not  follow  that  you  are 
to  gather  for  yourself  all  the  wealth  of  that  nation ; neither, 
because  you  are  king  of  a small  part  of  the  nation, 
and  lord  over  the  means  of  its  maintenance — over  field,  or 
mill,  or  mine,  are  you  to  take  all  the  produce  of 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


V6 


that  piece  of  the  foundation  of  national  existence  for 
yourself. 

You  will  tell  me  I need  not  preach  against  these  things, 
for  I cannot  mend  them.  No,  good  friends,  I cannot;  but 
you  can,  and  you  will ; or  something  else  can  and  will.  Do 
you  think  these  phenomena  are  to  stay  always  in  their  pre- 
sent power  or  aspect?  All  history  shows,  on  the.  contrary, 
that  to  be  the  exact  thing  they  never  can  do.  Change 
must  come ; but  it  is  ours  to  determine  whether  change  of 
growth,  or  change  of  death.  Shall  the  Parthenon  be  in  ruins 
on  its  rock,  and  Bolton  priory  in  its  meadow,  but  these  mills 
of  yours  be  the  consummation  of  the  buildings  of  the  egrth, 
and  their  wheels  be  as  the  wheels  of  eternity  ? Think  you 
that  c men  may  come,  and  men  may  go,’  but — mills — go  on 
for  ever  ? Not  so;  out  of  these,  better  or  worse  shall  come  ; 
and  it  is  for  you  to  choose  which. 

I know  that  none  of  this  wrong  is  done  with  deliberate 
purpose.  I know,  on  the  contrary,  that  you  wish  your  work- 
men well ; that  you  do  much  for  them,  and  that  you  desire  to 
do  more  for  them,  if  you  saw  your  way  to  it  safely.  I know- 
that  many  of  you  have  done,  and  are  every  day  doing,  what- 
ever you  feel  to  be  in  your  power ; and  that  even  all  this 
wrong  and  misery  are  brought  about  by  a warped  sense  of 
duty,  each  of  you  striving  to  do  his  best,  without  noticing 
that  this  best  is  essentially  and  centrally  the  best  for  himself, 


TRAFFIC. 


'll 


not  for  others.  And  all  this  has  come  of  the  spreading  of 
that  thrice  accursed,  thrice  impious  doctrine  of  the  modern 
economist,  that  4 To  do  the  best  for  yourself,  is  finally  to  do 
the  best  for  others.5  Friends,  our  great  Master  said  not  so  ; 
and  most  absolutely  we  shall  find  this  world  is  not  made  so. 
Indeed,  to  do  the  best  for  others,  is  finally  to  do  the  best  for 
ourselves ; but  it  will  not  do  to  have  our  eyes  fixed  on  that 
issue.  The  Pagans  had  got  beyond  that.  Hear  what  a Pagan 
says  of  this  matter ; hear  what  weije,  perhaps,  the  last  writ- 
ten words  of  Plato, — if  not  the  last  actually  written  (for  this 
we  cannot  know),  yet  assuredly  in  fact  and  power  his  parting 
words — in  which,  endeavouring  to  give  full  crowning  and 
harmonious  close  to  all  his  thoughts,  and  to  speak  the  sum  of 
them  by  the  imagined  sentence  of  the  Great  Spirit,  his 
strength  and  his  heart  fail  him,  and  the  words  cease,  broken 
off  for  ever.  It  is  the  close  of  the  dialogue  called  4 Critias,5 
in  which  he  describes,  partly  from  real  tradition,  partly  in 
ideal  dream,  the  early  state  of  Athens ; and  the  genesis,  and 
order,  and  religion,  of  the  fabled  isle  of  Atlantis ; in  which 
genesis  he  conceives  the  same  first  perfection  and  final  dege- 
neracy of  man,  which  in  our  own  Scriptural  tradition  is  ex- 
pressed by  saying  that  the  Sons  of  God  intermarried  with  the 
daughters  of  men,  for  he  supposes  the  earliest  race  to  have 
been  indeed  the  children  of  God  ; and  to  have  corrupted  them- 
selves, until  4 their  spot  was  not  the  spot  of  his  children.5 


18 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


And  this,  lie  says,  was  the  end  ; that  indeed  ‘ through  many 
generations,  so  long  as  the  God’s  nature  in  them  yet  was  full, 
they  were  submissive  to  the  sacred  laws,  and  carried  them- 
selves lovingly  to  all  that  had  kindred  with  them  in  divine- 
ness ; for  their  uttermost  spirit  was  faithful  and  true,  and  in 
every  wise  great ; so  that,  in  all  meekness  of  wisdom,  they 
dealt  with  each  other,  and  took  all  the  chances  of  life  ; and  de- 
spising all  things  except  virtue,  they  cared  little  what  hap- 
pened day  by  day,  and  bore  lightly  the  burden  of  gold  and  of 
possessions;  for  they  saw  that,  if  only  their  common  love 
and  virtue  increased,  all  these  things  would  be  increased  to- 
gether with  them ; but  to  set  their  esteem  and  ardent  pur- 
suit upon  material  possession  would  be  to  lose  that  first,  and 
their  virtue  and  affection  together  with  it.  And  by  such 
reasoning,  and  what  of  the  divine  nature  remained  in  them, 
they  gained  all  this  greatness  of  which  we  have  already  told  ; 
but  when  the  God’s  part  of  them  faded  and  "became  extinct, 
being  mixed  again  and  again,  and  effaced  by  the  prevalent 
mortality ; and  the  human  nature  at  last  exceeded,  they  then 
became  unable  to  endure  the  courses  of  fortune  ; and  fell  into 
shapelessness  of  life,  and  baseness  in  the  sight  of  him  who 
could  see,  having  lost  everything  that  was  fairest  of  their  hon- 
our ; while  to  the  blind  hearts  which  could  not  discern  the 
true  life,  tending  to  happiness,  it  seemed  that  they  were  then 
chiefly  noble  and  happy,  being  filled  with  all  iniquity  of  inor- 


TRAFFIC. 


79 


dinate  possession  and  power.  Whereupon,  the  God  of  Gods, 
whose  Kinghood  is  in  laws,  beholding  a once  just  nation  thus 
cast  into  misery,  and  desiring  to  lay  such  punishment  upon 
them  as  might  make  them  repent  into  restraining,  gathered 
together  all  the  gods  into  his  dwelling-place,  which  from  hea- 
ven’s centre  overlooks  whatever  has  part  in  creation ; and 

having  assembled  them,  he  said  ’ 

The  rest  is  silence.  So  ended  are  the  last  words  of  the 
chief  wisdom  of  the  heathen,  spoken  of  this  idol  of  riches ; 
this  idol  of  yours  ; this  golden  image  high  by  measureless  cu- 
bits, set  up  where  your  green  fields  of  England  are  furnace- 
burnt  into  the  likeness  of  the  plain  of  Dura  : this  idol,  forbid- 
den to  us,  first  of  all  idols,  by  our  own  Master  and  faith ; for- 
bidden to  us  also  by  every  human  lip  that  has  ever,  in  any  age 
or  people,  been  accounted  of  as  able  to  speak  according  to 
the  purposes  of  God.  Continue  to  make  that  forbidden  deity 
your  principal  one,  and  soon  no  more  art,  no  more  science,  no 
more  pleasure  will  be  possible.  Catastrophe  will  come ; or 
worse  than  catastrophe,  slow  mouldering  and  withering  into 
Hades.  But  if  you  can  fix  some  conception  of  a true  human 
state  of  life  to  be  striven  for — life  for  all  men  as  for  your- 
selves— if  you  can  determine  some  honest  and  simple  order 
of  existence ; following  those  trodden  ways  of  wisdom,  which 
are  pleasantness,  and  seeking  her  quiet  and  withdrawn  paths, 
which  are  peace  ; — then,  and  so  sanctifying  wealth  into  c com- 


80 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


monwealth,’  all  your  art,  your  literature,  your  daily  labours, 
your  domestic  affection,  and  citizen’s  duty,  will  join  and  in- 
crease into  one  magnificent  harmony.  You  will  know  then 
how  to  build,  well  enough ; you  will  build  with  stone  well, 
but  with  flesh  better;  temples  not  made  with  hands,  but 
riveted  of  hearts ; and  that  kind  of  marble,  crimson-veined, 
is  indeed  eternal. 


WAR. 


/ 





LECTURE  HI. 

(. Delivered  at  the  Royal  Military  Academy , Woolwich.) 

WAR 

Youxg  soldiers,  I do  not  doubt  but  that  many  of  you  came 
unwillingly  to-night,  and  many  in  merely  contemptuous 
curiosity,  to  hear  what  a writer  on  painting  could  possibly 
say,  or  would  venture  to  say,  respecting  your  great  art  of 
war.  You  may  well  think  within  yourselves,  that  a painter 
might,  perhaps  without  immodesty,  lecture  younger  painters 
upon  painting,  but  not  young  lawyers  upon  law,  nor  young 
physicians  upon  medicine  — least  of  all,  it  may  seem  to  you, 
young  warriors  upon  war.  And,  indeed,  when  I was  asked 
to  address  you,  I declined  at  first,  and  declined  long ; for  I 
felt  that  you  would  not  be  interested  in  my  special  business, 
and  would  certainly  think  there  was  small  need  for  me  to 
come  to  teach  you  yours.  Nay,  I knew  that  there  ought 
to  be  no  such  need,  for  the  great  veteran  soldiers  of  Eng- 
land are  now  men  every  way  so  thoughtful,  so  noble,  and  so 
good,  that  no  other  teaching  than  their  knightly  example,  and 
their  few  words  of  grave  and  tried  counsel  should  be  either 


84 


THE  CROWN  OP  WILD  OLIVE. 


necessary  for  you,  or  even,  without  assurance  of  due  modesty 
in  the  offerer,  endured  by  you. 

But  being  asked,  not  once  nor  twice,  I have  not  ventured 
persistently  to  refuse ; and  I will  try,  in  very  few  words,  to 
lay  before  you  some  reason  why  you  should  accept  my 
excuse,  and  hear  me  patiently.  You  may  imagine  that  your 
work  is  wholly  foreign  to,  and  separate  from  mine.  So  far 
from  that,  all  the  pure  and  noble  arts  of  peace  are  founded  on 
wrar ; no  great  art  ever  yet  rose  on  earth,  but  among  a nation 
of  soldiers.  There  is  no  art  among  a shepherd  people,  if 
it  remains  at  peace.  There  is  no  art  among  an  agricultural 
people,  if  it  remains  at  peace.  Commerce  is  barely  consist- 
ent with  fine  art ; but  cannot  produce  it.  Manufacture  not 
only  is  unable  to  produce  it,  but  invariably  destroys  whatever 
seeds  of  it  exist.  There  is  no  great  art  possible  to  a nation 
but  that  which  is  based  on  battle. 

Now,  though  I hope  you  love  fighting  for  its  own  sake, 
you  must,  I imagine,  be  surprised  at  my  assertion  that  there 
is  any  such  good  fruit  of  fighting.  You  supposed,  probably, 
that  your  office  was  to  defend  the  works  of  peace,  but 
certainly  not  to  found  them:  nay,  the  common  course  of 
war,  you  may  have  thought,  was  only  to  destroy  them.  And 
truly,  I who  tell  you  this  of  the  use  of  war,  should  have 
been  the  last  of  men  to  tell  you  so,  had  I trusted  my  own 
experience  only,  i Hear  why : I have  given  a considerable 


WAR. 


85 


part  of  my  life  to  the  investigation  of  Venetian  painting; 
and  the  result  of  that  enquiry  was  my  fixing  upon  one  man 
as  the  greatest  of  all  Venetians,  and  therefore,  as  I believed, 
of  all  painters  whatsoever.  I formed  this  faith,  (whether 
right  or  wrong  matters  at  present  nothing,)  in  the  supremacy 
bf  the  painter  Tintoret,  under  a roof  covered  with  his 
pictures ; and  of  those  pictures,  three  of  the  noblest  were 
then  in  the  form  of  shreds  of  ragged  canvas,  mixed  up  with 
the  laths  of  the  roof,  rent  through  by  three  Austrian  shells. 
Now  it  is  not  every  lecturer  who  could  tell  you  that  he  had 
seen  three  of  his  favourite  pictures  torn  to  rags  by  bomb- 
shells. And  after  such  a sight,  it  is  not  every  lecturer  who 
would  tell  you  that,  nevertheless,  war  was  the  foundation 
of  all  great  art. 

Yet  the  conclusion  is  inevitable,  from  any  careful  compari- 
son of  the  states  off  great  historic  races  at  different  periods. 
Merely  to  show  you  what  I mean,  I will  sketch  for  you, 
very  briefly,  the  broad  steps  of  the  advance  of  the  best  art 
of  the  world.  The  first  dawn  of  it  is  in  Egypt ; and  the 
power  of  it  is  founded  on  the  perpetual  contemplation  of 
death,  and  of  future  judgment,  by  the  mind  of  a nation  of 
which  the  ruling  caste  were  priests,  and  the  second,  soldiers. 
The  greatest  works  produced  by  them  are  sculptures  of 
their  kings  going  out  to  battle,  or  receiving  the  homage  of 
conquered  armies.  And  you  must  remember  also,  as  one 


86 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


of  the  great  keys  to  the  splendour  of  the  Egyptian  nation, 
that  the  priests  were  not  occupied  in  theology  only.  Their 
theology  was  the  basis  of  practical  government  and  law; 
so  that  they  were  not  so  much  priests  as  religious  judges : 
the  office  of  Samuel,  among  the  Jews,  being  as  nearly  as 
possible  correspondent  to  theirs. 

All  the  rudiments  of  art  then,  and  much  more  than  the 
rudiments  of  all  science,  are  laid  first  by  this  great  warrior- 
nation,  which  held  in  contempt  all  mechanical  trades,  and 
in  absolute  hatred  the  peaceful  life  of  shepherds.  From 
Egypt  art  passes  directly  into  Greece,  where  all  poetry,  and 
all  painting,  are  nothing  else  than  the  description,  praise,  or 
dramatic  representation  of  war,  or  of  the  exercises  which 
prepare  for  it,  in  their  connection  with  offices  of  religion. 
All  Greek  institutions  had  first  respect  to  war ; and  their 
conception  of  it,  as  one  necessary  office  of  all  human  and 
divine  life,  is  expressed  simply  by  the  images  of  their 
guiding  gods.  Apollo  is  the  god  of  all  wisdom  of  the  intel- 
lect ; he  bears  the  arrow  and  the  bow,  before  he  bears  the 
lyre.  Again,  Athena  is  the  goddess  of  all  wisdom  in  conduct. 
It  is  by  the  helmet  and  the  shield,  oftener  than  by  the  shuttle, 
that  she  is  distinguished  from  other  deities. 

There  were,  however,  two  great  differences  in  principle 
between  the  Greek  and  the  Egyptian  theories  of  policy. 
In  Greece  there  was  no  soldier  caste ; every  citizen  was 


WAR. 


87 


necessarily  a soldier.  And,  again,  while  the  Greeks  rightly 
despised  mechanical  arts  as  much  as  the  Egyptians,  they  did 
not  make  the  fatal  mistake  of  despising  agricultural  and  pas- 
toral life  ; but  perfectly  honoured  both.  These  two  conditions 
of  truer  thought  raise  them  quite  into  the  highest  rank  of  wise 
manhood  that  has  yet  been  reached ; for  all  our  great  arts, 
and  nearly  all  our  great  thoughts,  have  been  borrowed  or 
derived  from  them.  Take  away  from  us  what  they  have 
given ; and  I hardly  can  imagine  how  low  the  modern 
European  would  stand. 

Now,  you  are  to  remember,  in  passing  to  the  next  phase 
of  history,  that  though  you  must  have  war  to  produce  art — 
you  must  also  have  much  more  than  war ; namely,  an  art- 
instinct  or  genius  in  the  people ; and  that,  though  all  the 
talent  for  painting  in  the  world  won’t  make  painters  of  you, 
unless  you  have  a gift  for  fighting  as  well,  you  may  have  the 
gift  for  fighting,  and  none  for  painting.  Now,  in  the  next 
great  dynasty  of  soldiers,  the  art-instinct  is  wholly  wanting. 
I have  not  yet  investigated  the  Roman  character  enough  to 
tell  you  the  causes  of  this ; but  I believe,  paradoxical  as  it 
may  seem  to  you,  that,  however  truly  the  Roman  might  say 
of  himself  that  he  was  born  of  Mars,  and  suckled  by  the 
wolf,  he  was  nevertheless,  at  heart,  more  of  a farmer  than  a 
soldier.  The  exercises  of  war  were  with  him  practical,  not 
poetical ; his  poetry  was  in  domestic  life  only,  and  the  object 


88 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


of  battle,  c pads  imponere  morem.’  And  the  arts  are  extin- 
guished in  his  hands,  and*  do  not  rise  again,  until,  with 
Gothic  chivalry,  there  comes  back  into  the  mind  of  Europe  a 
passionate  delight  in  war  itself,  for  the  sake  of  war.  And 
then,  with  the  romantic  knighthood  which  can  imagine  no 
other  noble  employment, — under  the  fighting  kings  of 
France,  England,  and  Spain  ; and  under  the  fighting  dukeships 
and  citizenships  of  Italy,  art  is  born  again,  and  rises  to  her 
height  in  the  great  valleys  of  Lombardy  and  Tuscany,  through 
which  there  flows  not  a single  stream,  from  all  their  Alps  or 
Apennines,  that  did  not  once  run  dark  red  from  battle  : and  it 
reaches  its  culminating  glory  in  the  city  which  gave  to  history 
the  most  intense  type  of  soldiership  yet  seen  among  men  ; — the 
city  whose  armies  were  led  in  their  assault  by  their  king,  led 
through  it  to  victory  by  their  king,  and  so  led,  though  that 
king  of  theirs  was  blind,  and  in  the  extremity  of  his  age. 

And  from  this  time  forward,  as  peace  is  established  or 
extended  in  Europe,  the  arts  decline.  They  re  ach  an 
unparalleled  pitch  of  costliness,  but  lose  their  life,  enlist 
themselves  at  last  on  the  side  of  luxury  and  various  corrup- 
tion, and,  among  wholly  tranquil  nations,  wither  utterly 
away ; remaining  only  in  partial  practice  among  races  who, 
like  the  French  and  us,  have  still  the  minds,  though  we  can- 
not all  live  the  lives,  of  soldiers. 

6 It  may  be  so,’  I can  suppose  that  a philanthropist  might 


WAR. 


89 


exclaim.  c Perish  then  the  arts,  if  they  can  flourish  only  at  such 
a cost.  What  worth  is  there  in  toys  of  canvas  and  stone,  if 
compared  to  the  joy  and  peace  of  artless  domestic  life  ? 5 And 
the  answer  is — truly,  in  themselves,  none.  But  as  expressions 
of  the  highest  state  of  the  human  spirit,  their  worth  is  infinite. 
As  results  they  may  be  worthless,  but,  as  signs,  they  are 
above  price.  For  it  is  an  assured  truth  that,  whenever  the 
faculties  of  men  are  at  their  fulness,  they  must  express  them- 
selves by  art ; and  to  say  that  a state  is  without  such  expres- 
sion, is  to  say  that  it  is  sunk  from  its  proper  level  of  manly 
nature.  So  that,  when  I tell  you  that  war  is  the  foundation 
of  all  the  arts,  I mean  also  that  it  is  the  foundation  of  all  the 
high  virtues  and  faculties  of  men. 

It  was  very  strange  to  me  to  discover  this  ; and  very  dread- 
ful— but  I saw  it  to  be  quite  an  undeniable  fact.  The  com- 
mon notion  that  peace  and  the  virtues  of  civil  life  flourished 
together,  I found,  to  be  wholly  untenable.  Peace  and  the 
vices  of  civil  life  only  flourish  together.  We  talk  of  peace 
and  learning,  and  of  peace  and  plenty,  and  of  peace  and  civili- 
sation ; but  I found  that  those  were  not  the  words  which  the 
Muse  of  History  coupled  together  : that  on  her  lips,  the  words 
were — peace  and  sensuality,  peace  and  selfishness,  peace  and 
corruption,  peace  and  death.  I found,  in  brief,  that  all  great 
nations  learned  their  truth  of  word,  and  strength  of  thought,  in 
war  ; that  they  were  nourished  in  war,  and  wasted  by  peace ; 


90 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


taught  by  war,  and  deceived  by  peace  ; trained  by  war,  and 
betrayed  by  peace  ; — in  a word,  that  they  were  born  in  war, 
and  expired  in  peace. 

Yet  now  note  carefully,  in  the  second  place,  it  is  not  all  war 
of  which  this  can  be  said — nor  all  dragon’s  teeth,  which, 
sown,  will  start  up  into  men.  It  is  not  the  ravage  of  a bar- 
barian wolf-flock,  as  under  Genseric  or  Suwarrow  ; nor  the 
habitual  restlessness  and  rapine  of  mountaineers,  as  on  the 
old  borders  of  Scotland ; nor  the  occasional  struggle  of  a 
strong  peaceful  nation  for  its  life,  as  in  the  wars  of  the  Swiss 
with  Austria ; nor  the  contest  of  merely  ambitious  nations 
for  extent  of  power,  as  in  the  wars  of  France  under  Napoleon, 
or  the  just  terminated  war  in  America.  None  of  these  forms 
of  war  build  anything  but  tombs.  But  the  creative  or  foun- 
dational war  is  that  in  which  the  natural  restlessness  and  love 
of  contest  among  men  are  disciplined,  by  consent,  into  modes 
of  beautiful — though  it  may  be  fatal — play : in  which  the  na- 
tural ambition  and  love  of  power  of  men  are  disciplined  into 
the  aggressive  conquest  of  surrounding  evil : and  in  which  the 
natural  instincts  of  self-defence  are  sanctified  by  the  nobleness 
of  the  institutions,  and  purity  of  the  households,  which  they 
are  appointed  to  defend.  To  such  war  as  this  all  men  are  born  ; 
in  such  war  as  this  any  man  may  happily  die  ; and  forth  from 
such  war  as  this  have  arisen  throughout  the  extent  of  past 
ages,  all  the  highest  sanctities  and  virtues  of  humanity. 


WAR. 


91 


I shall  therefore  divide  the  war  of  which  I would  speak  to 
you  into  three  heads.  War  for  exercise  or  play;  war  for 
dominion  ; and,  war  for  defence. 

I.  And  first,  of  war  for  exercise  or  play.  I speak  of  it  pri- 
marily in  this  light,  because,  through  all  past  history,  manly 
war  has  been  more  an  exercise  than  anything  else,  among  the 
classes  who  cause,  and  proclaim  it.  It  is  not  a game  to  the 
conscript,  or  the  pressed  sailor ; but  neither  of  these  are  the 
causers  of  it.  To  the  governor  who  determines  that  war 
shall  be,  and  to  the  youths  who  voluntarily  adopt  it  as  their 
profession,  it  has  always  been  a grand  pastime ; and  chiefly 
pursued  because  they  had  nothing  else  to  do.  And  this  is 
true  without  any  exception.  N.o  king  whose  mind  was  fully 
occupied  wflth  the  development  of  the  inner  resources  of  his 
kingdom,  or  with  any  other  sufficing  subject  of  thought,  ever 
entered  into  war  but  on  compulsion.  No  youth  who  was 
earnestly  busy  with  any  peaceful  subject  of  study,  or  set  on 
any  serviceable  course  of  action,  ever  voluntarily  became  a 
soldier.  Occupy  him  early,  and  wisely,  in  agriculture  or  busi- 
ness, in  science  or  in  literature,  and  he  will  never  think  of  wrar 
otherwise  than  as  a calamity.  But  leave  him  idle ; and,  the 
more  brave  and  active  and  capable  he  is  by  nature,  the  more 
he  will  thirst  for  some  appointed  field  for  action  ; and  find,  in 
the  passion  and  peril  of  battle,  the  only  satisfying  fulfilment 
of  his  unoccupied  being.  And  from  the  earliest  incipient  civil- 


92 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


isation  until  now,  the  population  of  the  earth  divides  itself, 
when  you  look  at  it  widely,  into  two  races  ; one  of  workers, 
and  the  other  of  players — one  tilling  the  ground,  manufactur- 
ing, building,  and  otherwise  providing  for  the  necessities  of 
life  ; — the  other  part  proudly  idle,  and  continually  therefore 
needing  recreation,  in  which  they  use  the  productive  and 
laborious  orders  partly  as  their  cattle,  and  partly  as  their 
puppets  or  pieces  in  the  game  of  death. 

Now,  remember,  whatever  virtue  or  goodliness  there  may 
be  in  this  game  of  war,  rightly  played,  there  is  none  when 
you  thus  play  it  with  a multitude  of  small  human  pawns. 

If  you,  the  gentlemen  of  this  or  any  other  kingdom, 
choose  to  make  your  pastime  of  contest,  do  so,  and  welcome  ; 
but  set  not  up  these  unhappy  peasant-pieces  upon  the  green 
fielded  board.  If  the  wager  is  to  be  of  death,  lay  it  on  your 
own  heads,  not  theirs.  A goodly  struggle  in  the  Olympic 
dust,  though  it  be  the  dust  of  the  grave,  the  gods  will  look 
upon,  and  be  with  you  in ; but  they  will  not  be  with  you,  if 
you  sit  on  the  sides  of  the  amphitheatre,  whose  steps  are 
the  mountains  of  earth,  whose  arena  its  valleys,  to  urge  your 
peasant  millions  into  gladiatorial  war.  You  also,  you  tender 
and  delicate  women,  for  whom,  and  by  whose  command,  all 
true  battle  has  been,  and  must  ever  be ; you  would  perhaps 
shrink  now,  though  you  need  not,  from  the  thought  of 
sitting  as  queens  above  set  lists  where  the  jousting  game 


WAR. 


93 


might  be  mortal.  How  much  more,  then,  ought  you  to 
shrink  from  the  thought  of  sitting  above  a theatre  pit  in 
which  even  a few  condemned  slaves  were  slaying  each  other 
only  for  your  delight ! And  do  you  not  shrink  from  the  fact 
of  sitting  above  a theatre  pit,  where,—  not  condemned  slaves, 
— but  the  best  and  bravest  of  the  poor  sons  of  your  people, 
slay  each  other, — not  man  to  man, — as  the  coupled  gladia- 
tors ; but  race  to  race,  in  duel  of  generations?  You  would 
tell  me,  perhaps,  that  you  do  not  sit  to  see  this ; and  it  is 
indeed  true,  that  the  women  of  Europe — those  who  have  no 
heart-interest  of  their  own  at  peril  in  the  contest — draw  the 
curtains  of  their  boxes,  and  muffle  the  openings ; so  that 
from  the  pit  of  the  circus  of  slaughter  there  may  reach  them 
only  at  intervals  a half-heard  cry  and  a murmur  as  of  the 
wind’s  sighing,  when  myriads  of  souls  expire.  They  shut 
out  the  death-cries ; and  are  happy,  and  talk  wittily  among 
themselves.  That  is  the  utter  literal  fact  of  what  our  ladies 
do  in  their  pleasant  lives. 

Nay,  you  might  answer,  speaking  for  them — ‘We  do  not 
let  these  wars  come  to  pass  for  our  play,  nor  by  our  careless- 
ness ; we  cannot  help  them.  How  can  any  final  quarrel  of 
nations  be  settled  otherwise  than  by  war  ? 5 I cannot  now 
delay,  to  tell  you  how  political  quarrels  might  be  otherwise 
settled.  But  grant  that  they  cannot.  Grant  that  no  law  of 
reason  can  be  understood  by  nations;  no  law  of  justice  sub- 


94 


THE  CEOWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


mitted  to  by  them : and  that,  while  questions  of  a few  acres, 
and  of  petty  cash,  can  be  determined  by  truth  and  equity, 
the  questions  which  are  to  issue  in  the  perishing  or  saving  of 
kingdoms  can  be  determined  only  by  the  truth  of  the  sword, 
and  the  equity  of  the  rifle.  Grant  this,  and  even  then,  judge 
if  it  will  always  be  necessary  for  you  to  p ut  your  quarrel  into 
the  hearts  of  your  poor,  and  sign  your  treaties  with  peasants’ 
blood.  You  would  be  ashamed  to  do  this  in  your  own 
private  position  and  power.  Why  should  you  not  be  ashamed 
also  to  do  it  in  public  place  and  power  ? If  you  quarrel  with 
your  neighbour,  and  the  quarrel  be  indeterminable  by  law, 
and  mortal,  you  and  he  do  not  send  your  footmen  to  Batter- 
sea fields  to  fight  it  out ; nor  do  you  set  fire  to  his  tenants’ 
cottages,  nor  spoil  their  goods.  You  fight  out  your  quarrel 
yourselves,  and  at  your  own  danger,  if  at  all.  And  you  do 
not  think  it  materially  affects  the  arbitrement  that  one  of  you 
has  a larger  household  than  the  other ; so  that,  if  the  servants 
or  tenants  were  brought  into  the  field  with  their  masters,  the 
issue  of  the  contest  cquld  not  be  doubtful?  You  either 
refuse  the  private  duel,  or  you  practise  it  under  laws  of 
honour,  not  of  physical  force ; that  so  it  may  be,  in  a manner, 
justly  concluded.  Now  the  just  or  unjust  conclusion  of  the 
private  feud  is  of  little  moment,  while  the  just  or  unjust  conclu- 
sion of  the  public  feud  is  of  eternal  moment : and  yet,  in  this 
public  quarrel,  you  take  your  servants’  sons  from  their  arms 


WAR. 


95 


to  fight  for  it,  and  your  servants’  food  from  their  lips  to  sup- 
port it;  and  the  black  seals  on  the  parchment  of  your  treaties 
of  peace  are  the  deserted  hearth  and  the  fruitless  field. 
There  is  a ghastly  ludicrousness  in  this,  as  there  is  mostly  in 
these  wide  and  universal  crimes.  Hear  the  statement  of  the 
very  fact  of  it  in  the  most  literal  words  of  the  greatest  of  our 
English  thinkers : — 

‘ What,  speaking  in  quite  unofficial  language,  is  the  net-purport  and 
upshot  of  war?  To  my  own  knowledge,  for  example,  there  dwell 
and  toil,  in  the  British  village  of  Dumdrudge,  usually  some  five  hun- 
dred souls.  From  these,  by  certain  “natural  enemies”  of  the  French, 
there  are  successively  selected,  during  the  French  war,  say  thirty  able- 
bodied  men.  Dumdrudge,  at  her  own  expense,  has  suckled  and 
nursed  them ; she  has,  not  without  difficulty  and  sorrow,  fed  them  up 
to  manhood,  and  even  trained  them  to  crafts,  so  that  one  can  weave, 
another  build,  another  hammer,  and  the  weakest  can  stand  under 
thirty  stone  avoirdupois.  Nevertheless,  amid  much  weeping  and 
swearing,  they  are  selected ; all  dressed  in  red ; and  shipped  away,  at 
the  public  charges,  some  two  thousand  miles,  or  say  only  to  the  south 
of  Spain ; and  fed  there  till  wanted. 

c And  now  to  that  same  spot  in  the  south  of  Spain  are  thirty  similar 
French  artisans,  from  a French  Dumdrudge,  in  like  manner  wending ; 
till  at  length,  after  infinite  effort,  the  two  parties  come  into  actual 
juxtaposition;  and  Thirty  stands  fronting  Thirty,  each  with  a gun  in 
his  hand. 

1 Straightway  the  word  “ Fire ! ” is  given,  and  they  blow  the  souls 


96 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


out  of  one  another,  and  in  place  of  sixty  brisk  useful  craftsmen,  the 
world  has  sixty  dead  carcases,  which  it  must  bury,  and  anon  shed 
tears  for.  Had  these  men  any  quarrel  ? Busy  as  the  devil  is,  not  the 
smallest ! They  lived  far  enough  apart ; were  the  entirest  strangers ; 
nay,  in  so  wide  a universe,  there  was  even,  unconsciously,  by  com- 
merce, some  mutual  helpfulness  between  them.  How  then?  Sim- 
pleton! their  governors  had  fallen  out;  and  instead  of  shooting  one 
another,  had  the  cunning  to  make  these  poor  blockheads  shoot.’ 
(Sartor  Besartus.) 

Positively,  then,  gentlemen,  the  game  of  battle  must  not, 
and  shall  not,  ultimately  be  played  this  way.  But  should  it 
be  played  any  way  ? Should  it,  if  not  by  your  servants,  be 
practised  by  yourselves?  I think,  yes.  Both  history  and 
human  instinct  seem  alike  to  say,  yes.  All  healthy  men  like 
fighting,  and  like  the  sense  of  danger ; all  brave  women  like 
to  hear  of  their  fighting,  and  of  their  facing  danger.  This  is 
a fixed  instinct  in  the  fine  race  of  them ; and  I cannot  help 
fancying  that  fair  fight  is  the  best  play  for  them ; and  that  a 
tournament  was  a better  game  than  a steeple-chase.  The 
time  may  perhaps  come  in  France  as  well  as  here,  for  univer- 
sal hurdle-races  and  cricketing : but  I do  not  think  universal 
c crickets  ’ will  bring  out  the  best  qualities  of  the  nobles  of 
either  country.  I use,  in  such  question,  the  test  which  I have 
adopted,  of  the  connection  of  war  with  other  arts;  and  I 
reflect  how,  as  a sculptor,  I should  feel,  if  I were  asked  to 


WAR. 


97 


design  a monument  for  a dead  knight,  in  Westminster  abbey, 
with  a carving  of  a bat  at  one  end,  and  a ball  at  the  other. 
It  maybe  the  remains  in  me  only  of  savage  Gothic  prejudice; 
but  I had  rather  carve  it  with  a shield  at  one  end,  and  a 
sword  at  the  other.  And  this,  observe,  with  no  reference 
whatever  to  any  story  of  duty  done,  or  cause  defended. 
Assume  the  knight  merely  to  have  ridden  out  occasionally  to 
fight  his  neighbour  for  exercise ; assume  him  even  a soldier 
of  fortune,  and  to  have  gained  his  bread,  and  filled  his  purse, 
at  the  sword’s  point.  Still,  I feel  as  if  it  were,  somehow, 
grander  and  worthier  in  him  to  have  made  his  bread  by 
sword  play  than  any  other  play ; I had  rather  he  had  made  it 
by  thrusting  than  by  batting ; — much  more,  than  by  betting. 
Much  rather  that  he  should  ride  war  horses,  than  back  race 
horses ; and — I say  it  sternly  and  deliberately — much 
rather  would  I have  him  slay  his  neighbour,  than  cheat 
him. 

But  remember,  so  far  as  this  may  be  true,  the  game 
of  war  is  only  that  in  which  the  full  personal  power  of 
the  human  creature  is  brought  out  in  management  of  its 
weapons.  And  this  for  three  reasons : — 

First,  the  great  justification  of  this  game  is  that  it  truly, 
when  well  played,  determines  who  is  the  best  man  / — 
who  is  the  highest  bred,  the  most  self-denying,  the  most 

fearless,  the  coolest  of  nerve,  the  swiftest  of  eye  and  hand. 

5 


98 


THE  CEOWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


You  cannot  test  these  qualities  wholly,  unless  there  is  a 
clear  possibility  of  the  struggle’s  ending  in  death.  It  is 
only  in  the  fronting  of  that  condition  that  the  full  trial 
of  the  man,  soul  and  body,  comes  out.  You  may  go  to 
your  game  of  wickets,  or  of  hurdles,  or  of  cards,  and 
any  knavery  that  is  in  you  may  stay  unchallenged  all 
the  while.  But  if  the  play  may  be  ended  at  any  moment  by 
a lance-thrust,  a man  will  probably  make  up  his  accounts 
a little  before  he  enters  it.  Whatever  is  rotten  and  evil 
in  him  will  weaken  his  hand  more  in  holding  a sword  hilt, 
than  in  balancing  a billiard  cue ; and  on  the  whole,  the 
habit  of  living  lightly  hearted,  in  daily  presence  of  death, 
always  has  had,  and  must  have,  a tendency  both  to  the 
making  and  testing  of  honest  men.  But  for  the  final  test- 
ing, observe,  you  must  make  the  issue  of  battle  strictly 
dependent  on  fineness  of  frame,  and  firmness  of  hand.  You 
must  not  make  it  the  question,  which  of  the  combatants 
has  the  longest  gun,  or  which  has  got  behind  the  biggest 
tree,  or  which  has  the  wind  in  his  face,  or  which  has  gun- 
powder made  by  the  best  chemists,  or  iron  smelted  with 
the  best  coal,  or  the  angriest  mob  at  his  back.  Decide 
your  battle,  whether  of  nations,  or  individuals,  on  those 
terms  ; — and  you  have  only  multiplied  confusion,  and  added 
slaughter  to  iniquity.  But  decide  your  battle  by  pure  trial 
which  has  the  strongest  arm,  and  steadiest  heart, — and  you 


WAR. 


90 


have  gone  far  to  decide  a great  many  matters  besides,  and 
to  decide  them  rightly. 

And  the  other  reasons  for  this  mode  of  decision  of  cause, 
are  the  diminution  both  of  the  material  destructiveness, 
or  cost,  and  of  the  physical  distress  of  war.  For  you  must 
not  think  that  in  speaking  to  you  in  this  (as  you  may 
imagine),  fantastic  praise  of  battle,  I have  overlooked  the 
conditions  weighing  against  me.  I pray  all  of  you,  who 
have  not  read,  to  read  with  the  most  earnest  attention,  Mr. 
Helps’s  two  essays  on  War  and  Government,  in  the  first 
volume  of  the  last  series  of  c Friends  in  Council.’  Everything 
that  can  be  urged  against  war  is  there  simply,  exhaustively, 
and  most  graphically  stated.  And  all,  there  urged,  is  true. 
But  the  two  great  counts  of  evil  alleged  against  war  by 
that  most  thoughtful  writer,  hold  only  against  modern  war. 
If  you  have  to  take  away  masses  of  men  from  all  indus- 
trial employment, — to  feed  them  by  the  labour  of  others, — 
to  move  them  and  provide  them  with  destructive  machines, 
varied  daily  in  national  rivalship  of  inventive  cost;  if  you 
have  to  ravage  the  country  which  you  attack, — to  destroy 
for  a score  of  future  years,  its  roads,  its  woods,  its  cities, 
and  its  harbours; — and  if,  finally,  having  brought  masses 
of  men,  counted  by  hundreds  of  thousands,  face  to  face,  you 
tear  those  masses  to  pieces  with  jagged  shot,  and  leave  the 
fragments  of  living  creatures,  countlessly  beyond  all  help  of 


100 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


surgery,  to  starve  and  parch,  through  days  of  torture,  down 
into  clots  of  clay — what  book  of  accounts  shall  record  the 
cost  of  your  work  ; — What  book  of  judgment  sentence  the 
guilt  of  it  ? 

That,  I say,  is  modern  war, — scientific  war, — chemical  and 
mechanic  war,  worse  even  than  the  savage’s  poisoned  arrow. 
And  yet  you  will  tell  me,  perhaps,  that  any  other  war  than  this 
is  impossible  now.  It  may  be  so  ; the  progress  of  science  can- 
not, perhaps,  be  otherwise  registered  than  by  new  facilities 
of  destruction ; and  the  brotherly  love  of  our  enlarging 
Christianity  be  only  proved  by  multiplication  of  murder. 
Yet  hear,  for  a moment,  what  war  was,  in  Pagan  and  igno- 
rant days  ; — what  war  might  yet  be,  if  we  could  extinguish 
our  science  in  darkness,  and  join  the  heathen’s  practice  to  the 
Christian’s  theory.  I read  you  this  from  a book  which  proba- 
bly most  of  you  know  well,  and  all  ought  to  know — Muller’s 
‘ Dorians ; 5 — but  I have  put  the  points  I wish  you  to  remem- 
ber in  closer  connection  than  in  his  text. 

‘The  chief  characteristic  of  the  warriors  of  Sparta  was 
great  composure  and  subdued  strength  ; the  violence  (Xurfa'a) 
of  Aristodemus  and  Isadas  being  considered  as  deserving 
rather  of  blame  than  praise ; and  these  qualities  in  general 
distinguished  the  Greeks  from  the  northern  Barbarians,  whose 
boldness  always  consisted  in  noise  and  tumult.  For  the  same 
reason  the  Spartans  sacrificed  to  the  Muses  before  an  action ; 


WAR. 


101 


these  goddesses  being  expected  to  produce  regularity  and 
order  in  battle ; as  ‘they  sacrificed  on  the  same  occasion  in 
Crete  to  the  god  of  love , as  the  confirmer  of  mutual  esteem 
and  shame.  Every  man  put  on  a crown,  when  the  band  of 
flute-players  gave  the  signal  for  attack ; all  the  shields  of  the 
line  glittered  with  their  high  polish,  and  mingled  their 
splendour  with  the  dark  red  of  the  purple  mantles,  which 
were  meant  both  to  adorn  the  combatant,  and  to  conceal  the 
blood  of  the  wounded ; to  fall  well  and  decorously  being  an 
incentive  the  more  to  the  most  heroic  valour.  The  conduct 
of  the  Spartans  in  battle  denotes  a high  and  noble  disposition, 
which  rejected  all  the  extremes  of  brutal  rage.  The  pursuit 
of  the  enemy  ceased  when  the  victory  was  completed ; and 
after  the  signal  for  retreat  had  been  given,  all  hostilities 
ceased.  The  spoiling  of  arms,  at  least  during  the  battle,  was 
also  interdicted ; and  the  consecration  of  the  spoils  of  slain 
enemies  to  the  gods,  as,  in  general,  all  rejoicings  for  victory, 
were  considered  as  ill-omened.5 

Such  was  the  war  of  the  greatest  soldiers  who  prayed  to 
heathen  gods.  What  Christian  war  is,  preached  by  Chris- 
tian ministers,  let  any  one  tell  you,  who  saw  the  sacred 
crowning,  and  heard  the  sacred  flute-playing,  and  was 
inspired  and  sanctified  by  the  divinely-measured  and  musi- 
cal language,  of  any  North  American  regiment  preparing 
for  its  charge.  And  what  is  the  relative  cost  of  life  in 


102 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIYE. 


pagan  and  Christian  wars,  let  this  one  fact  tell  you : — the 
Spartans  won  the  decisive  battle  of  Corinth  with  the  loss 
of  eight  men  ; the  victors  at  indecisive  Gettysburg  confess 
to  the  loss  of  30,000. 

II.  I pass  now  to  our  second  order  of  war,  the  commonest 
among  men,  that  undertaken  in  desire  of  dominion.  And 
let  me  ask  you  to  think  for  a few  moments  what  the  real 
meaning  of  this  desire  of  dominion  is — first  in  the  minds  of 
kings — then  in  that  of  nations. 

Now,  mind  you  this  first, — that  I speak  either  about  kings, 
or  masses  of  men,  with  a fixed  conviction  that  human  nature 
is  a noble  and  beautiful  thing ; not  a foul  nor  a base  thing. 
All  the  sin  of  men  I esteem  as  their  disease,  not  their  nature ; 
as  a folly  which  may  be  prevented,  not  a necessity  which 
must  be  accepted.  And  my  wonder,  even  when  things  are 
at  their  worst,  is  always  at  the  height  which  this  human 
nature  can  attain.  Thinking  it  high,  I find  it  always  a higher 
thing  than  I thought  it ; while  those  who  think  it  low,  find 
it,  and  will  find  it,  always  lower  than  they  thought  it : the 
fact  being,  that  it  is  infinite,  and  capable  of  infinite  height 
and  infinite  fall ; but  the  nature  of  it — and  here  is  the  faith 
which  I would  have  you  hold  with  me — the  nature  of  it  is  in 
the  nobleness,  not  in  the  catastrophe. 

Take  the  faith  in  its  utmost  terms.  When  the  captain  of 
the  c London 5 shook  hands  with  his  mate,  saying  c God  speed 


WAR. 


103 


you ! I will  go  down  with  my  passengers,’  that  I believe  to 
be  c human  nature.5  He  does  not  do  it  from  any  religious 
motive — from  any  hope  of  reward,  or  any  fear  of  punish- 
ment ; he  does  it  because  he  is  a man.  But  when  a mother, 
living  among  the  fair  fields  of  merry  England,  gives  her 

two-vear-old  child  to  be  suffocated  under  a mattress  in  her 

* 

inner  room,  while  the  said  mother  waits  and  talks  outside ; 
that  I believe  to  be  not  human  nature.  You  have  the  two 
extremes  there,  shortly.  And  you,  men,  and  mothers,  who 
are  here  face  to  face  with  me  to-night,  I call  upon  you  to  say 
which  of  these  is  human,  and  which  inhuman — which  ‘ natu- 
ral 5 and  which  c unnatural  ? 5 Choose  your  creed  at  once,  I 
beseech  you : — choose  it  with  unshaken  choice — choose  it  for 
ever.  Will  you  take,  for  foundation  of  act  and  hope,  the 
faith  that  this  man  was  such  as  God  made  him,  or  that  this 
woman  was  such  as  God  made  her?  Which  of  them  has 
failed  from  their  nature — from  their  present,  possible,  actual 
nature ; — not  their  nature  of  long  ago,  but  their  nature  of 
now?  Which  has  betrayed  it — falsified  it?  Did  the  guar- 
dian who  died  in  his  trust,  die  inhumanly,  and  as  a fool ; and 
did  the  murderess  of  her  child  fulfil  the  law  of  her  being  ? 
Choose,  I say;  infinitude  of  choices  hang  upon  this.  You 
have  had  false  prophets  among  you — for  centuries  you  have 
had  them — solemnly  warned  against  them  though  you  were ; 
false  prophets,  who  have  told  you  that  all  men  are  nothing 


104 


THE  CROWN  OP  WILD  OLIVE. 


but  fiends  or  wolves,  half  beast,  half  devil.  Believe  that, 
and  indeed  you  may  sink  to  that.  But  refuse  that,  and  have 
faith  that  God  4 made  you  upright,’  though  you  have  sought 
out  many  inventions ; so,  you  will  strive  daily  to  become 
more  what  your  Maker  meant  and  means  you  to  be,  and 
daily  gives  you  also  the  power  to  be — and  you  will  cling 
more  and  more  to  the  nobleness  and  virtue  that  is  in  you, 
saying,  4 My  righteousness  I hold  fast,  and  will  not  let  it  go.’ 

I have  put  this  to  you  as  a choice,  as  if  you  might  hold 
either  of  these  creeds  you  liked  best.  But  there  is  in  reality 
no  choice  for  you ; the  facts  being  quite  easily  ascertainable. 
You  have  no  business  to  think  about  this  matter,  or  to  choose 
in  it.  The  broad  fact  is,  that  a human  creature  of  the  highest 
race,  and  most  perfect  as  a human  thing,  is  invariably  both 
kind  and  true;  and  that  as  you  lower  the  race,  you  get 
cruelty  and  falseness,  as  you  get  deformity : and  this  so 
steadily  and  assuredly,  that  the  two  great  words  which,  in 
their  first  use,  meant  only  perfection  of  race,  have  come,  by 
consequence  of  the  invariable  connection  of  virtue  with  the 
fine  human  nature,  both  to  signify  benevolence  of  disposition. 
The  word  generous,  and  the  word  gentle,  both,  in  their  origin, 
meant  only  4 of  pure  race,’  but  because  charity  and  tenderness 
are  inseparable  from  this  purity  of  blood,  the  words  which 
once  stood  only  for  pride,  now  stand  as  synonyms  for  virtue. 

Now,  this  being  the  true  power  of  our  inherent  humanity, 


WAR. 


105 


and  seeing  that  all  the  aim  of  education  should  be  to  develop 
this; — and  seeing  also  what  magnificent  self  sacrifice  the 
higher  classes  of  men  are  capable  of,  for  any  cause  that  they 
understand  or  feel, — it  is  wholly  inconceivable  to  me  how 
well-educated  princes,  who  ought  to  be  of  all  gentlemen  the 
gentlest,  and  of  all  nobles  the  most  generous,  and  whose  title 
of  royalty  means  only  their  function  of  doing  every  man 
4 right  ’ — how  these,  I say,  throughout  history,  should  so 
rarely  pronounce  themselves  on  the  side  of  the  poor  and  of 
justice,  but  continually  maintain  themselves  and  their  own 
interests  by  oppression  of  the  poor,  and  by  wresting  of  justice ; 
and  how  this  should  be  accepted  as  so  natural,  that  the  word 
loyalty,  which  means  faithfulness  to  law,  is  used  as  if  it  were 
only  the  duty  of  a people  to  be  loyal  to  their  king,  and  not 
the  duty  of  a king  to  be  infinitely  more  loyal  to  his  people. 
How  comes  it  to  pass  that  a captain  will  die  with  his  pass- 
engers, and  lean  over  the  gunwale  to  give  the  parting  boat  its 
course ; but  that  a king  will  not  usually  die  with,  much  less 
for , his  passengers, — thinks  it  rather  incumbent  on  his  pas- 
sengers, in  any  number,  to  die  for  him?  Think,  I beseech 
you,  of  the  wonder  of  this.  The  sea  captain,  not  captain  by 
divine  right,  but  only  by  company’s  appointment not  a 
man  of  royal  descent,  but  only  a plebeian  who  can  steer ; — 
not  with  the  eyes  of  the  world  upon  him,  but  with  feeble 

chance,  depending  on  one  poor  boat,  of  his  name  being  ever 

5* 


106 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


heard  above  the  wash  of  the  fatal  waves  ; — not  with  the  cause 
of  a nation  resting  on  his  act,  but  helpless  to  save  so  much  as 
a child  from  among  the  lost  crowd  with  whom  he  resolves  to 
be  lost, — yet  goes  down  quietly  to  his  grave,  rather  than 
break  his  faith  to  these  few  emigrants.  But  your  captain  by 
divine  right, — your  captain  with  the  hues  of  a hundred  shields 
of  kings  upon  his  breast, — your  captain  whose  every  deed, 
brave  or  base,  will  be  illuminated  or  branded  for  ever  before 
unescapable  eyes  of  men, — your  captain  whose  every  thought 
and  act  are  beneficent,  or  fatal,  from  sun  rising  to  setting, 
blessing  as  the  sunshine,  or  shadowing  as  the  night, — this 
captain,  as  you  find  him  in  history,  for  the  most  part  thinks 
only  how  he  may  tax  his  passengers,  and  sit  at  most  ease  in 
his  state  cabin ! 

For  observe,  if  there  had  been  indeed  in  the  hearts  of  the 
rulers  of  great  multitudes  of  men  any  such  conception  of 
work  for  the  good  of  those  under  their  command,  as  there  is 
in  the  good  and  thoughtful  masters  of  any  small  company  of 
men,  not  only  wars  for  the  sake  of  mere  increase  of  power 
could  never  take  place,  but  our  idea  of  power  itself  would  be 
entirely  altered.  Do  you  suppose  that  to  think  and  act  even 
for  a million  of  men,  to  hear  their  complaints,  watch  their 
weaknesses,  restrain  their  vices,  make  laws  for  them,  lead 
them,  day  by  day,  to  purer  life,  is  not  enough  for  one  man’s 
work  ? If  any  of  us  were  absolute  lord  only  of  a district  of 


AVAR. 


1G7 


a hundred  miles  square,  and  were  resolved  on  doing  our  ut- 
most for  it ; making  it  feed  as  large  a number  of  people  as 
possible ; making  every  clod  productive,  and  every  rock 
defensive,  and  every  human  being  happy ; should  we  not 
have  enough  on  our  hands  think  you  ? But  if  the  ruler  has 
any  other  aim  than  this  ; if,  careless  of  the  result  of  his  inter- 
ference, he  desire  only  the  authority  to  interfere  ; and,  re- 
gardless of  what  is  ill  done  or  well-done,  cares  only  that  it 
shall  be  done  at  his  bidding ; — if  he  would  rather  do  two  hun- 
dred miles’  space  of  mischief,  than  one  hundred  miles’  space  of 
good,  of  course  he  will  try  to  add  to  his  territory  ; and  to  add 
inimitably.  But  does  he  add  to  his  power?  Do  you  call  it 
power  in  a child,  if  he  is  allowed  to  play  with  the  wheels  and 
bands  of  some  vast  engine,  pleased  with  their  murmur  and 
whirl,  till  his  unwise  touch,  Avandering  where  it  ought  not, 
scatters  beam  and  wheel  into  ruin?  Yet  what  machine  is  so 
vast,  so  incognisable,  as  the  working  of  the  mind  of  a nation  ; 
what  child’s  touch  so  wanton,  as  the  word  of  a selfish  king  ? 
And  yet,  how  long  have  we  allowed  the  historian  to  speak  of 
the  extent  of  the  calamity  a man  causes,  as  a just  ground  for 
his  pride  ; and  to  extol  him  as  the  greatest  prince,  who  is 
only  the  centre  of  the  widest  error.  Follow  out  this  thought 
by  yourselves ; and  you  will  find  that  all  power,  properly  so 
called,  is  A\rise  and  benevolent.  There  may  be  capacity  in  a 
drifting  fireship  to  destroy  a fleet;  there  may  be  venom 


108 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


enough  in  a dead  body  to  infect  a nation  : — but  which  of  you, 
the  most  ambitious,  would  desire  a drifting  kinghood,  robed 
in  consuming  fire,  or  a poison-dipped  sceptre  whose  touch 
was  mortal  ? There  is  no  true  potency,  remember,  but  that 
of  help ; nor  true  ambition,  but  ambition  to  save. 

And  then,  observe  farther,  this  true  power,  the  power 
of  saving,  depends  neither  on  multitude  of  men,  nor  on 
extent  of  territory.  We  are  continually  assuming  that  nations 
become  strong  according  to  their  numbers.  They  indeed 
become  so,  if  those  numbers  can  be  made  of  one  mind ; but 
how  are  you  sure  you  can  stay  them  in  one  mind,  and  keep 
them  from  having  north  and  south  minds  ? Grant  them 
unanimous,  how  know  you  they  wTill  be  unanimous  in  right  ? 
If  they  are  unanimous  in  wrong,  the  more  they  are,  essen- 
tially the  weaker  they  are.  Or,  suppose  that  they  can  neither 
be  of  one  mind,  nor  of  two  minds,  but  can  only  be  of  no 
mind  ? Suppose  they  are  a mere  helpless  mob ; tottering 
into  precipitant  catastrophe,  like  a waggon  load  of  stones 
when  the  wheel  comes  off.  Dangerous  enough  for  their 
neighbours,  certainly,  but  not  ( powerful.’ 

Neither  does  strength  depend  on  extent  of  territory,  any 
more  than  upon  number  of  population.  Take  up  your  maps 
when  you  go  home  this  evening, — put  the  cluster  of  British 
Isles  beside  the  mass  of  South  America ; and  then  consider 
whether  any  race  of  men  need  care  how  much  ground  they 


WAR.  * 


109 


stand  upon.  The  strength  is  in  the  men,  and  in  their  unity 
and  virtue,  not  in  their  standing  room:  a little  group  of  wise 
hearts  is  better  than  a wilderness  full  of  fools  ; and  only  that 
nation  gains  true  territory,  which  gains  itself. 

And  now  for  the  brief  practical  outcome  of  all  this.  Re- 
member, no  government  is  ultimately  strong,  but  in  propor- 
tion to  its  kindness  and  justice ; and  that  a nation  does  not 
strengthen,  by  merely  multiplying  and  diffusing  itself.  We 
have  not  strengthened  as  yet,  by  multiplying  into  America. 
Nay,  even  when  it  has  not  to  encounter  the  separating  con- 
ditions of  emigration,  a nation  need  not  boast  itself  of  multi- 
plying on  its  own  ground,  if  it  multiplies  only  as  flies  or  locusts 
do,  with  the  god  of  flies  for  its  god.  It  multiplies  its  strength 
only  by  increasing  as  one  great  family,  in  perfect  fellowship 
and  brotherhood.  And  lastly,  it  does  not  strengthen  itself 
by  seizing  dominion  over  races  whom  it  cannot  benefit. 
Austria  is  not  strengthened,  but  weakened,  by  her  grasp  of 
Lombardy;  and  whatever  apparent  increase  of  majesty  and 
of  wealth  may  have  accrued  to  us  from  the  possession  of 
India,  whether  these  prove  to  us  ultimately  power  or  weak- 
ness, depends  wholly  on  the  degree  in  which  our  influence  on 
the  native  race  shall  be  benevolent  and  exalting.  But,  as  it 
is  at  their  own  peril  that  any  race  extends  their  dominion  in 
mere  desire  of  power,  so  it  is  at  their  own  still  greater  peril 
that  they  refuse  to  undertake  aggressive  war,  according  to 


110 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIYE. 


I 


their  force,  whenever  they  are  assured  that  their  authority 
would  be  helpful  and  protective.  Nor  need  you  listen  to  any 
sophistical  objection  of  the  impossibility  of  knowing  when  a 
people’s  help  is  needed,  or  when  not.  Make  your  national 
conscience  clean,  and  your  national  eyes  will  soon  be  clear. 
No  man  who  is  truly  ready  to  take  part  in  a noble  quarrel 
will  ever  stand  long  in  doubt  by  whom,  or  in  what  cause,  his 
aid  is  needed.  I hold  it  my  duty  to  make  no  political  state- 
ment of  any  special  bearing  in  this  presence ; but  I tell  you 
broadly  and  boldly,  that,  within  these  last  ten  years,  we 
English  have,  as  a knightly  nation,  lost  our  spurs : we  have 
fought  where  wre  should  not  have  fought,  for  gain  ; and  we 
have  been  passive  where  we  should  not  have  been  passive, 
for  fear.  I tell  you  that  the  principle  of  non-intervention,  as 
now  preached  among  us,  is  as  selfish  and  cruel  as  the  worst 
frenzy  of  conquest,  and  differs  from  it  only  by  being  not  only 
malignant,  but  dastardly. 

I know,  however,  that  my  opinions  on  this  subject  differ  too 
widely  from  those  ordinarily  held,  to  be  any  farther  intruded 
upon  you ; and  therefore  I pass  lastly  to  examine  the  con- 
ditions of  the  third  kind  of  noble  war  ; — war  waged  simply 
for  defence  of  the  country  in  which  we  were  born,  and  for  the 
maintenance  and  execution  of  her  laws,  by  whomsoever  threat- 
ened or  defied.  It  is  to  this  duty  that  I suppose  most  men 
entering  the  army  consider  themselves  in  reality  to  be  bound, 


WAR. 


Ill 


and  I want  you  now  to  reflect  what  the  laws  of  mere  defence 
are ; and  what  the  soldier’s  duty,  as  now  understood,  or  sup- 
posed to  he  understood.  You  have  solemnly  devoted  your- 
selves to  be  English  soldiers,  for  the  guardianship  of  England. 
I want  you  to  feel  what  this  vow  of  yours  indeed  means,  or 
is  gradually  coming  to  mean.  You  take  it  upon  you,  first, 
while  you  are  sentimental  schoolboys ; you  go  into  your  mili- 
tary convent,  or  barracks,  just  as  a girl  goes  into  her  convent 
while  she  is  a sentimental  schoolgirl ; neither  of  you  then 
know  what  you  are  about,  though  both  the  good  soldiers  and 
good  nuns  make  the  best  of  it  afterwards.  You  don’t  un- 
derstand perhaps  why  I call  you  6 sentimental  ’ schoolboys, 
when  you  go  into  the  army  ? Because,  on  the  whole,  it  is 
love  of  adventure,  of  excitement,  of  fine  dress  and  of  the 
pride  of  fame,  all  which  are  sentimental  motives,  which 
chiefly  make  a boy  like  going  into  the  Guards  better  than 
into  a counting-house.  You  fancy,  perhaps,  that  there  is  a 
severe  sense  of  duty  mixed  with  these  peacocky  motives  ? 
And  in  the  best  of  you,  there  is ; but  do  not  think  that  it  is 
principal.  If  you  cared  to  do  your  duty  to  your  country  in  a 
prosaic  and  unsentimental  way,  depend  upon  it,  there  is  now 
truer  duty  to  be  done  in  raising  harvests,  than  in  burning 
them ; more  in  building  houses,  than  in  shelling  them — more 
in  winning  money  by  your  own  work,  wherewith  to  help 
men,  than  in  taxing  other  people’s  work,  for  money  where- 


112 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


with  to  slay  men ; more  duty  finally,  in  honest  and  unselfish 
living  than  in  honest  and  unselfish  dying,  though  that  seems 
to  your  boys’  eyes  the  bravest.  So  far  then,  as  for  your  own 
honour,  and  the  honour  of  your  families,  you  choose  brave 
death  in  a red  coat  before  brave  life  in  a black ^one,  you  are 
sentimental ; and  now  see  what  this  passionate  vow  of  yours 
comes  to.  For  a little  while  you  ride,  and  you  hunt  tigers  or 
savages,  you  shoot,  and  are  shot ; you  are  happy,  and  proud, 
always,  and  honoured  and  wept  if  you  die  ; and  you  are 
satisfied  with  your  life,  and  with  the  end  of  it ; believing,  on 
the  whole,  that  good  rather  than  harm  of  it  comes  to  others, 
and  much  pleasure  to  you.  But  as  the  sense  of  duty  enters 
into  your  forming  minds,  the  vow  takes  another  aspect.  You 
find  that  you  have  put  yourselves  into  the  hand  of  your 
country  as  a weapon.  You  have  vowed  to  strike,  when  she 
bids  you,  and  to  stay  scabbard ed  when  she  bids  you ; all  that 
you  need  answer  for  is,  that  you  fail  not  in  her  grasp.  And 
there  is  goodness  in  this,  and  greatness,  if  you  can  trust  the 
hand  and  heart  of  the  Britomart  who  has  braced  you  to  her 
side,  and  are  assured  that  when  she  leaves  you  sheathed  in 
darkness,  there  is  no  need  for  your  flash  to  the  sun.  But 
remember,  good  and  noble  as  this  state  may  be,  it  is  a state 
of  slavery.  There  are  different  kinds  of  slaves  and  different 
masters.  Some  slaves  are  scourged  to  their  work  by  whips, 
others  are  scourged  to  it  by  restlessness  or  ambition.  It  does 


WAR. 


113 


not  matter  what  the  whip  is ; it  is  none  the  less  a whip,  because 
you  have  cut  thongs  for  it  out  of  your  own  souls : the  fact,  so 
far,  of  slavery,  is  in  being  driven  to  your  work  without 
thought,  at  another’s  bidding.  Again,  some  slaves  are  bought 
with  money,  and  others  with  praise.  It  matters  not  what  the 
purchase-money  is.  The  distinguishing  sign  of  slavery  is  to 
have  a price,  and  be  bought  for  it.  Again,  it  matters  not 
what  kind  of  work  you  are  set  on ; some  slaves  are  set  to 
forced  diggings,  others  to  forced  marches  ; some  dig  furrows, 
others  field-works,  and  others  graves.  Some  press  the  juice 
of  reeds,  and  some  the  juice  of  vines,  and  some  the  blood  of 
men.  The  fact  of  the  captivity  is  the  same  whatever  work 
we  are  set  upon,  though  the  fruits  of  the  toil  may  be  different. 
But,  remember,  in  thus  vowing  ourselves  to  be  the  slaves  of 
any  master,  it  ought  to  be  some  subject  of  forethought  with 
us,  what  work  he  is  likely  to  put  us  upon.  You  may  think 
that  the  whole  duty  of  a soldier  is  to  be  passive,  that  it  is  the 
country  you  have  left  behind  who  is  to  command,  and  you 
have  only  to  obey.  But  are  'y°u  sure  that  you  have  left  all 
your  country  behind,  or  that  the  part  of  it  you  have  so  left  is 
indeed  the  best  part  of  it  ? Suppose — and,  remember,  it  is 
quite  conceivable — that  you  yourselves  are  indeed  the  best 
part  of  England;  that  you,  who  have  become  the  slaves, 
ought  to  have  been  the  masters ; and  that  those  who  are  the 
masters,  ought  to  have  been  the  slaves ! If  it  is  a noble  and 


114 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


whole-hearted  England,  whose  bidding  you  are  bound  to  do, 
it  is  well ; but  if  you  are  yourselves  the  best  of  her  heart,  and 
the  England  you  have  left  be  but  a half-hearted  England,  how 
say  you  of  your  obedience  ? You  were  too  proud  to  become 
shopkeepers : are  you  satisfied  then  to  become  the  servants  of 
shopkeepers?  You  were  too  proud  to  become  merchants  or 
farmers  yourselves  : will  you  have  merchants  or  farmers  then 
for  your  field  marshals?  You  had  no  gifts  of  special  grace 
for  Exeter  Hall : will  you  have  some  gifted  person  thereat 
for  your  commander-in-chief,  to  judge  of  your  work,  and  re- 
ward it  ? You  imagine  yourselves  to  be  the  army  of  Eng- 
land : how  if  you  should  find  yourselves,  at  last,  only  the 
police  of  her  manufacturing  towns,  and  the  beadles  of  her 
little  Bethels  ? 

It  is  not  so  yet,  nor  will  be  so,  I trust,  for  ever ; but  what 
I want  you  to  see,  and  to  be  assured  of,  is,  that  the  ideal 
of  soldiership  is  not  mere  passive  obedience  and  bravery; 
that,  so  far  from  this,  no  country  is  in  a healthy  state  which 
has  separated,  even  in  a small  degree,  her  civil  from  her 
military  power.  All  states  of  the  world,  however  great, 
fall  at  once  when  they  use  mercenary  armies ; and  although 
it  is  a less  instant  form  of  error  (because  involving  no  na- 
tional taint  of  cowardice),  it  is  yet  an  error  no  less  ultimately 
fatal — it  is  the  error  especially  of  modern  times,  of  which 
we  cannot  yet  know  all  the  calamitous  consequences — to 


WAR. 


115 


take  away  the  best  blood  and  strength  of  the  nation,  all  the 
soul-substance  of  it  that  is  brave,  and  careless  of  reward, 
and  scornful  of  pain,  and  faithful  in  trust ; and  to  cast  that 
into  steel,  and  make  a mere  sword  of  it;  taking  away  its 
voice  and  will ; but  to  keep  the  worst  part  of  the  nation — 
whatever  is  cowardly,  avaricious,  sensual,  and  faithless — 
and  to  give  to  this  the  voice,  to  this  the  authority,  to  this 
the  chief  privilege,  where  there  is  least  capacity,  of  thought. 
The  fulfilment  of  your  vow  for  the  defence  of  England  will 
by  no  means  consist  in  carrying  out  such  a system.  You 
are  not  true  soldiers,  if  you  only  mean  to  stand  at  a shop 
door,  to  protect  shop-boys  who  are  cheating  inside.  A 
soldier’s  vow  to  his  country  is  that  he  will  die  for  the 
guardianship  of  her  domestic  virtue,  of  her  righteous  laws, 
and  of  her  anyway  challenged  or  endangered  honour.  A 
state  without  virtue,  without  laws,  and  without  honour,  he 
is  bound  not  to  defend ; nay,  bound  to  redress  by  his  own 
right  hand  that  which  he  sees  to  be  base  in  her.  So  Sternly 
is  this  the  law  of  Nature  and  life,  that  a nation  once  utterly 
corrupt  can  only  be  redeemed  by  a military  despotism — 
never  by  talking,  nor  by  its  free  effort.  And  the'  health 
of  any  state  consists  simply  in  this  : that  in  it,  those  who 
are  wisest  shall  also  be  strongest ; its  rulers  should  be  also 
its  soldiers ; or,  rather,  by  force  of  intellect  more  than  of 
sword,  its  soldiers  its  rulers.  Whatever  the  hold  which  the 


116 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


aristocracy  of  England  has  on  the  heart  of  England,  in 
that  they  are  still  always  in  front  of  her  battles,  this  hold 
will  not  be  enough,  unless  they  are  also  in  front  of  her 
thoughts.  And  truly  her  thoughts  need  good  captain’s 
leading  now,  if  ever  ! Do  you  know  what,  by  this  beautiful 
division  of  labour  (her  brave  men  fighting,  and  her  cowards 
thinking),  she  has  come  at  last  to  think  ? Here  is  a bit 
of  paper  in  my  hand,*  a good  one  too,  and  an  honest  one; 
quite  representative  of  the  best  common  public  thought 
of  England  at  this  moment ; and  it  is  holding  forth  in  one 
of  its  leaders  upon  our  4 social  welfare,’ — upon  our  4 vivid 
life  ’ — upon  the  4 political  supremacy  of  Great  Britain.’ 

* I do  not  c^e  to  refer  to  the  journal  quoted,  because  the  article  was 
unworthy  of  its  general  tone,  though  in  order  to  enable  the  audience  to 
verify  the  quoted  sentence,  I left  the  number  containing  it  on  the  table, 
when  I delivered  this  lecture.  But  a saying  of  Baron  Liebig’s,  quoted  at 
the  head  of  a leader  on  the  same  subject  in  the  * Daily  Telegraph  ’ of  Jan- 
uary 11;  1866,  summarily  digests  and  presents  the  maximum  folly  of 
modern  thought  in  this  respect.  ‘Civilization,’  says  the  Baron,  ‘is  the 
economy  of  power,  and  English  power  is  coal.’  Not  altogether  so,  my 
chemical  friend.  Civilization  is  the  making  of  civil  persons,  which  is  a 
kind  of  distillation  of  which  alembics  are  incapable,  and  does  not  at  all 
imply  the  turning  of  a small  company  of  gentlemen  into  a large  company 
of  ironmongers.  And  English  power  (what  little  of  it  may  be  left),  is  by 
no  means  coal,  but,  indeed,  of  that  which,  ‘ when  the  whole  world  turns 
to  coal,  then  chiefly  lives.’ 


WAR. 


117 


And  what  do  you  think  all  these  are  owing  to  ? To  what 
our  English  sires  have  done  for  us,  and  taught  us,  age  after 
age?  No:  not  to  that.  To  our  honesty  of  heart,  or  cool- 
ness of  head,  or  steadiness  of  will?  No:  not  to  these.  To 
our  thinkers,  or  our  statesmen,  or  our  poets,  or  our  cap- 
tains, or  our  martyrs,  or  the  patient  labour  of  our  poor  ? 
No:  not  to  these;  or  at  least  not  to  these  in  any  chief 
measure.  Nay,  says  the  journal,  ‘more  than  any  agency, 
it  is  the  cheapness  and  abundance  of  our  coal  which  have 
made  us  wrhat  we  are.’  If  it  be  so,  then  ‘ashes  to  ashes’ 
be  our  epitaph ! and  the  sooner  the  better.  I tell  you, 
gentlemen  of  England,  if  ever  you  would  have  your  country 
breathe  the  pure  breath  of  heaven  again,  and  receive  again  a 
soul  into  her  body,  instead  of  rotting  into  a carcase,  blown 
up  in  the  belly  with  carbonic  acid  (and  great  that  way),  you 
must  think,  and  feel,  for  your  England,  as  well  as  fight  for 
her:  you  must  teach  her  that  all  the  true  greatness  she 
ever  had,  or  ever  can  have,  she  Won  while  her  fields  were 
green  and  her  faces  ruddy ; — that  greatness  is  still  possible 
for  Englishmen,  even  though  the  ground  be  not  hollow 
under  their  feet,  nor  the  sky  black  over  their  heads ; — and 
that,  when  the  day  comes  for  their  country  to  lay  her 
honours  in  the  dust,  her  crest  will  not  rise  from  it  more 
loftily  because  it  is  dust  of  coal.  Gentlemen,  I tell  you, 
solemnly,  that  the  day  is  coming  when  the  soldiers  of 


118 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


England  must  be  her  tutors ; and  the  captains  of  her  army, 
captains  also  of  her  mind. 

And  now,  remember,  you  soldier  youths,  who  are  thus 
in  all  ways  the  hope  of  your  country ; or  must  be,  if  she 
have  any  hope  : remember  that  your  fitness  for  all  future 
trust  depends  upon  what  you  are  now.  No  good  soldier 
in  his  old  age  was  ever  careless  or  indolent  in  his  youth. 
Many  a giddy  and  thoughtless  boy  has  become  a good 
bishop,  or  a good  lawyer,  or  a good  merchant ; but  no  such 
an  one  ever  became  a good  general.  I challenge  you,  in 
all  history,  to  find  a record  of  a good  soldier  who  was  not 
grave  and  earnest  in  his  youth.  And,  in  general,  I have 
no  patience  with  people  who  talk  about  c the  thoughtless- 
ness of  youth  ’ indulgently.  I had  infinitely  rather  hear 
of  thoughtless  old  age,  and  the  indulgence  due  to  that. 
When  a man  has  done  his  work,  and  nothing  can  any  way 
be  materially  altered  in  his  fate,  let  him  forget  his  toil, 
and  jest  with  his  fate,  if  he  will ; but  what  excuse  can  you 
find  for  wilfulness  of  thought,  at  the  very  time  when  every 
crisis  of  future  fortune  hangs  on  your  decisions  ? A youth 
thoughtless ! when  all  the  happiness  of  his  home  for  ever 
depends  on  the  chances,  or  the  passions,  of  an  hour ! A 
youth  thoughtless ! when  the  career  of  all  his  days  depends 
on  the  opportunity  of  a moment!  A youth  thoughtless! 
when  his  every  act  is  a foundation-stone  of  future  conduct, 


WAR. 


119 


and  every  imagination  a fountain  of  life  or  death ! Be 
thoughtless  -in  any  after  years,  rather  than  now — though, 
indeed,  there  is  only  one  place  where  a man  may  be  nobly 
thoughtless, — his  deathbed.  No  thinking  should  ever  be 
left  to  be  done  there. 

Having,  then,  resolved  that  you  will  not  waste  recklessly, 
but  earnestly  use,  these  early  days  of  yours,  remember  that 
all  the  duties  of  her  children  to  England  may  be  summed 
in  two  words — industry,  and  honour.  I say  first,  industry, 
for  it  is  in  this  that  soldier  youth  are  especially  tempted  to 
fail.  Yet,  surely,  there  is  no  reason,  because  your  life  may 
possibly  or  probably  be  shorter  than  other  men’s,  that  you 
should  therefore  waste  more  recklessly  the  portion  of  it 
that  is  granted  you ; neither  do  the  duties  of  your  profes- 
sion, which  require  you  to  keep  your  bodies  strong,  in  any 
wise  involve  the  keeping  of  your  minds  weak.  So  far 
from  that,  the  experience,  the  hardship,  and  the  activity 
of  a soldier’s  life  render  his  powers  of  thought  more  accu- 
rate than  those  of  other  men ; and  while,  for  others,  all 
knowledge  is  often  little  more  than  a means  of  amusement, 
there  i#  no  form  of  science  which  a soldier  may*  not  at 
some  time  or  other  find  bearing  on  business  of  life  and 
death.  A young  mathematician  may  be  excused  for  lan- 
guor in  studying  curves  to  be  described  only  wTith  a pen- 
cil ; but  not  in  tracing  those  which  are  to  be  described 


120 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIYE. 


with  a rocket.  Your  knowledge  of  a wholesome  herb  may 
involve  the  feeding  of  an  army;  and  acquaintance  with  an 
obscure  point  of  geography,  the  success  of  a campaign. 
Never  waste  an  instant’s  time,  therefore  ; the  sin  of  idle- 
ness is  a thousand-fold  greater  in  you  than  in  other 
youths ; for  the  fates  of  those  who  will  one  day  be  under 
your  command  hang  upon  your  knowledge ; lost  moments 
now  will  be  lost  lives  then,  and  every  instant  which  you 
carelessly  take  for  play,  you  buy  with  blood.  But  there  is 
one  way  of  wasting  time,  of  all  the  vilest,  because  it  wastes, 
not  time  only,  but  the  interest  and  energy  of  your  minds. 
Of  all  the  ungentlemanly  habits  into  which  you  can  fall, 
the  vilest  is  betting,  or  interesting  yourselves  in  the  issues 
of  betting.  It  unites  nearly  every  condition  of  folly  and 
vice ; you  concentrate  your  interest  upon  a matter  of  chance, 
instead  of  upon  a subject  of  true  knowledge ; and  you  back 
opinions  which  you  have  no  grounds  for  forming,  merely 

9 

because  they  are  your  own.  All  the  insolence  of  egotism 
is  in  this;  and  so  far  as  the  love  of  excitement  is  compli- 
cated with  the  hope  of  winning  money,  you  turn  yourselves 
into  the  basest  sort  of  tradesmen — those  who  live  specu- 
lation. Were  there  no  other  ground  for  industry,  this 
would  be  a sufficient  one ; that  it  protected  you  from  the 
temptation  to  so  scandalous  a vice.  Work  faithfully,  and 
you  will  put  yourselves  in  possession  of  a glorious  and  en- 


WAR. 


121 


larging  happiness ; not  such  as  can  be  won  by  the  speed 
of  a horse,  or  marred  by  the  obliqfuity  of  a ball. 

First,  then,  by  industry  you  must  fulfil  your  vow  to  your 

country;  but  all  industry  and  earnestness  will  be  useless 

unless  they  are  consecrated  by  your  resolution  to  be  in  all 

things  men  of  honour ; not  honour  in  the  common  sense  only, 

but  in  the  highest.  Rest  on  the  force  of  the  two  main  words 

in  the  great  verse,  integer  vitae,  scelerisque  purus.  You 

have  vowed  your  life  to  England ; give  it  her  wholly — a 

bright,  stainless,  perfect  life — a knightly  life.  Because  you 

have  to  fight  with  machines  instead  of  lances,  there  may  be  a 

necessity  for  more  ghastly  danger,  but  there  is  none  for  less 

worthiness  of  character,  than  in  olden  time.  You  may  be 

true  knights  yet,  though  perhaps  not  equites  • you  may  have 

to  call  yourselves  c cannonry 5 instead  of  c chivalry,’  but  that 

is  no  reason  why  you  should  not  call  yourselves  true  men. 

So  the  first  thing  you  have  to  see  to  in  becoming  soldiers 

is  that  you  make  yourselves  wholly  true.  Courage  is  a mere 

matter  of  course  among  any  ordinarily  well-born  youths; 

but  neither  truth  nor  gentleness  is  matter  of  course.  You 

must  bind  them  like  shields  about  your  necks ; you  must 

write  them  on  the  tables  of  your  hearts.  Though  it  be  not 

exacted  of  you,  yet  exact  it  of  yourselves,  this  vow  of  stainless 

truth.  Your  hearts  are,  if  you  leave  them  unstirred,  as 

tombs  in  which  a god  lies  buried.  Vow  yourselves  crusaders 

6 


122 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


to  redeem  that  sacred  sepulchre.  And  remember,  before 
all  things — for  no  other  memory  will  be  so  protective  of 
you — that  the  highest  law  of  this  knightly  truth  is  that 
under  which  it  is  vowed  to  women.  Whomsoever  else  you 
deceive,  whomsoever  you  injure,  whomsoever  you  leave 
unaided,  you  must  not  deceive,  nor  injure,  nor  leave  unaided, 
according  to  your  power,  any  woman  of  whatever  rank. 
Believe  me,  every  virtue  of  the  higher  phases  of  manly 
character  begins  in  this ; — in  truth  and  modesty  before  the 
face  of  all  maidens ; in  truth  and  pity,  or  truth  and  reverence, 
to  all  womanhood. 

And  now  let  me  turn  for  a moment  to  you, — wives  and 
maidens,  who  are  the  souls  of  soldiers ; to  you, — mothers, 
who  have  devoted  your  children  to  the  great  hierarchy  of 
war.  Let  me  ask  you  to  consider  what  part  you  have  to 
take  for  the  aid  of  those  who  love  you ; for  if  you  fail  in  your 
part  they  cannot  fulfil  theirs ; such  absolute  helpmates  you 
are  that  no  man  can  stand  without  that  help,  nor  labour  in  his 
own  strength. 

I know  your  hearts,  and  that  the  truth  of  them  never 
fails  when  an  hour  of  trial  comes  which  you  recognise  for 
such.  But  you  know  not  when  the  hour  of  trial  first  finds 
you,  nor  when  it  verily  finds  you.  You  imagine  that  you  are 
only  called  upon  to  wait  and  to  suffer ; to  surrender  and  to 
mourn.  You  know  that  you  must  not  weaken  the  hearts 


WAR. 


123 


of  your  husbands  and  lovers,  even  by  the  one  fear  of  which 
those  hearts  are  capable, — the  fear  of  parting  from  you,  or  of 
causing  you  grief.  Through  weary  years  of  separation; 
through  fearful  expectancies  of  unknown  fate ; through  the 
tenfold  bitterness  of  the  sorrow  which  might  so  easily  have 
been  joy,  and  the  tenfold  yearning  for  glorious  life  struck 
down  in  its  prime — through  all  these  agonies  you  fail  not, 
and  never  will  fail.  But  your  trial  is  not  in  these.  To  be 
heroic  in  danger  is  little; — you  are  Englishwomen.  To  be 
heroic  in  change  and  sway  of  fortune  is  little ; — for  do  you 
not  love  ? To  be  patient  through  the  great  chasm  and  pause 
of  loss  is  little  ; — for  do  you  not  still  love  in  heaven  ? But  to 
be  heroic  in  happiness ; to  bear  yourselves  gravely  and  right- 
eously in  the  dazzling  of  the  sunshine  of  morning ; not  to  forget 
the  God  in  whom  you  trust,  when  He  gives  you  most  ; not 
to  fail  those  who  trust  you,  when  they  seem  to  need  you 
least ; this  is  the  difficult  fortitude.  It  is  not  in  the  pining 
of  absence,  not  in  the  peril  of  battle,  not  in  the  wasting  of 
sickness,  that  your  prayer  should  be  most  passionate,  or  your 
guardianship  most  tender.  Pray,  mothers  and  maidens,  for 
your  young  soldiers  in  the  bloom  of  their  pride;  pray  for 
them,  while  the  only  dangers  round  them  are  in  their  own 
wayward  wills ; watch  you,  and  pray,  when  they  have  to 
face,  not  death,  but  temptation.  But  it  is  this  fortitude  also 
for  which  there  is  the  crowning  reward.  Believe  me,  the 


124 


THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


whole  course  and  character  of  your  lovers’  lives  is  in  your 
hands ; what  you  would  have  them  be,  they  shall  be,  if  you 
not  only  desire  to  have  them  so,  but  deserve  to  have  them 
so ; for  they  are  but  mirrors  in  which  you  will  see  yourselves 
imaged.  If  you  are  frivolous,  they  will  be  so  also  ; if  you 
have  no  understanding  of  the  scope  of  their  duty,  they  also 
will  forget  it ; they  will  listen, — they  can  listen, — to  no  other 
interpretation  of  it  than  that  uttered  from  your  lips.  Bid 
them  be  brave; — they  will  be  brave  for  you;  bid  them  be 
cowards ; and  how  noble  soever  they  be  ; — they  will  quail  for 
you.  Bid  them  be  wise,  and  they  will  be  wise  for  you;  mock 
at  their  counsel,  they  will  be  fools  for  you : such  and  so  abso- 
lute is  your  rule  over  them.  You  fancy,  perhaps,  as  you  have 
been  told  so  often,  that  a wife’s  rule  should  only  be  over  her 
husband’s  house,  not  over  his  mind.  Ah,  no  ! the  true  rule  is 
just  the  reverse  of  that;  a true  wife,  in  her  husband’s  house, 
is  his  servant ; it  is  in  his  heart  that  she  is  queen.  Whatever 
of  the  best  he  can  conceive,  it  is  her  part  to  be  ; whatever  of 
highest  he  can  hope,  it  is  hers  to  promise ; all  that  is  dark  in 
him  she  must  purge  into  purity  ; all  that  is  failing  in  him  she 
must  strengthen  into  truth : from  her,  through  all  the 
world’s  clamour,  he  must  win  his  praise  ; in*  her,  through  all 
the  world’s  warfare,  he  must  find  his  peace. 

And,  now,  but  one  word  more.  You  may  wonder,  per- 
haps, that  I have  spoken  all  this  night  in  praise  of  war. 


WAR, 


125 


Yet,  truly,  if  it  might  be,  I,  for  one,  would  fain  join  in  the 
cadence  of  hammer-strokes  that  should  beat  swords  into 
ploughshares : and  that  this  cannot  be,  is  not  the  fault  of  us 
men.  It  is  your  fault.  Wholly  yours.  Only  by  your  com- 
mand, or  by  your  permission,  can  any  contest  take  place 
among  us.  And  the  real,  final,  reason  for  all  the  poverty, 
misery,  and  rage  of  battle,  throughout  Europe,  is  simply  that 
you  women,  however  good,  however  religious,  however  self- 
sacrificing  for  those  whom  you  love,  are  too  selfish  and  too 
thoughtless  to  take  pains  for  any  creature  out  of  your  own 
immediate  circles.  You  fancy  that  you  are  sorry  for  the 
pain  of  others.  Now  I just  tell  you  this,  that  if  the  usual 
course  of  war,  instead  of  unroofing  peasants’  houses,  and 
ravaging  peasants’  fields,  merely  broke  the  china  upon  your 
own  drawing-room  tables,  no  war  in  civilised  countries 
would  last  a week.  I tell  you  more,  that  at  whatever 
moment  you  chose  to  put  a period  to  war,  you  could  do  it 
with  less  trouble  than  you  take  any  day  to  go  out  to  dinner. 
You  know,  or  at  least  you  might  know  if  you  would  think, 
that  every  battle  you  hear  of  has  made  many  widows  and 
orphans.  We  have,  none  of  us,  heart  enough  truly  to  mourn 
with  these.  But  at  least  we  might  put  on  the  outer  symbols 
of  mourning  with  them.  Let  but  every  Christian  lady  who 
has  conscience  toward  God,  vow  that  she  will  mourn,  at  least 
outwardly,  for  His  killed  creatures.  Your  praying  is  use- 


126 


THE  CKOWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE. 


less,  and  your  churchgoing  mere  mockery  of  God,  if  you 
have  not  plain  obedience  in  you  enough  for  this.  Let  every 
lady  in  the  upper  classes  of  civilised  Europe  simply  vow  that, 
while  any  cruel  war  proceeds,  she  will  wear  black ; — a mute’s 
black, — with  no  jewel,  no  ornament,  no  excuse  for,  or  eva- 
sion into,  prettiness. — I tell  you  again,  no  war  would  last  a 
week. 

And  lastly.  You  women  of  England  are  all  now  shrieking 
with  one  voice, — you  and  your  clergymen  together, — because 
you  hear  of  your  Bibles  being  attacked.  If  you  choose  to 
obey  your  Bibles,  you  will  never  care  who  attacks  them.  It 
is  just  because  you  never  fulfil  a single  downright  precept  of 
the  Book,  that  you  are  so  careful  for  its  credit : and  just 
because  you  don’t  care  to  obey  its  whole  words,  that  you  are 
so  particular  about  the  letters  of  them.  The  Bible  tells  you 
to  dress  plainly, — and  you  are  mad  for  finery ; the  Bible  tells 
you  to  have  pity  on  the  poor, — and  you  crush  them  under 
your  carriage- wheels ; the  Bible  tells  you  to  do  judgment 
and  justice, — and  you  do  not  know,  nor  care  to  know,  so 
much  as  what  the  Bible  word  ‘justice  means’  Do 
but  learn  so  much  of  God’s  truth  as  that  comes  to ; know 
what  He  means  when  He  tells  you  to  be  just:  and  teach 
your  sons,  that  their  bravery  is  but  a fool’s  boast,  and  their 
deeds  but  a firebrand’s  tossing,  unless  they  are  indeed  Just 
men,  and  Perfect  in  the  Fear  of  God ; — and  you  will  soon 


WAR. 


127 


have  no  more  war,  unless  it  be  indeed  such  as  is  willed  by 
Him,  of  whom,  though  Prince  of  Peace,  it  is  also  written,  4 In 
Righteousness  He  doth  judge,  and  make  war.’ 


THE  END. 


/ 


BOSTON  COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

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